Underwear on the Washing Line
by boysenberry
Summary: You can't have a romance with someone you've seen naked in the bath more times than you can count. It's just - what's the point? You've known each other your whole lives. There's nothing new to discover, no excitement or frissons or shivers down your spine when you catch his eye across a crowded room... Right?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: JK Rowling's, not mine!**

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><p>Mundane fact #1: My life is not mundane in the slightest. And neither is my name, despite what Teddy Lupin might think. It's <em>Victoire<em>, dammit, and if he calls me Vicky one more time I swear I'm going to throttle him.

What part of "exotic French ancestry" doesn't he understand?

Just because his real name's boring doesn't mean everyone else's are.

Mundane fact #2: I can't think of another mundane fact, which worries me a bit, because how am I ever going to write books for teenagers if I can't even master the art of the chapter starting list?

It's probably because I'm a bit rusty from the holidays. That's the thing with writing. You stay up until all hours at school, desperately scribbling down every scrap and scene onto anything you can find, dreaming of the day you can sit at your desk all day, the hours stretching in front of you as you dramatically pause and stare out the window, a drop of ink on your nose...

(That's the other thing I haven't mastered. Getting ink on my nose by accident. It's the ultimate writer's accessory, isn't it? The other day I tried doing it, on purpose, you know, just to see what I'd look like - but Teddy caught me halfway through and I ended up with half the bottle up my nose. Maybe I should try it with a quill next time.)

Anyway, the holidays didn't quite work out that way. The thing about my window is that it overlooks the beach. And the thing about beaches is that they're a really marvellous form of procrastination.

Especially when you've got writer's block, and Teddy Lupin's standing outside said window and yelling out "Vicky! Get some sun onto that skin!"

I told him to shut up, and ran outside to slap him before he could add something about my pasty-white legs.

It's not as bad as it was at the start of summer - but let's face it, with Mum's genes I'm never going to be a swimwear model. Unless the Veela thing somehow shone through and swayed the selection panel, but I don't think one-eighth quite cuts it any more. Especially when you've got blue snot dripping from your nose.

Thanks, Teddy.

Anyway, I don't care that I don't have a tan. Milky-white - no, milk's almost as bad as pasty - how about lily-white? Lily-pale? No, white sounds better than pale, definitely. And the lily part is definitely staying.

I wonder how I'd be described in a book?

_Her lily-white fingers stretched idly across her wand, twelve inches of dragon heartstring - then leapt back as she remembered her vow. For there was something more powerful even than magic - the power of the written word..._

Not bad for a first attempt. Except for the twelve inches of dragon heartstring part. What kind of number is twelve? I mean, I'm no Arithmancy student, but that doesn't mean I can't have opinions on numbers - and I definitely have a negative one on twelve. Maybe it's the even number thing. I'm definitely an odd numbers girl. It's because I'm a writer, you see - and writers are always the oddballs in society.

That's what I keep telling Teddy. And then he starts laughing before I can add the bit about oddballs being immortalised in history.

Now that I think about it, he'd laugh even harder at that. Maybe it's for the best that I didn't get to say that out loud.

Pity real life doesn't have first drafts.

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><p>"Victoire! Are your bags packed yet?"<p>

Mum. Dom's bags aren't packed either, but is she yelling at her? "Almost! Just a couple of books left!"

She makes some dramatic French hiss/gesture thing. I wish I could describe it - no, I wish I could do it, but whenever I try I feel like a snake, which isn't the effect I'm going for at all. Why couldn't we have grown up in France? Then I'd know all her gestures, and have plenty of _Gallic charm_, and when I came over in seventh year as an exchange student -

(I'm still debating whether to kill off my parents. On one hand it sort of goes with the mysterious French girl thing, and it'd mean I could go home for Christmas with assorted cute boys without feeling guilty about abandoning my family. And on Christmas Eve, we could have a dramatic "first Christmas without my beloved Mama" moment under the mistletoe... But, you know, they're nice people. Maybe they could just be kidnapped by goblins?)

- well, all the boys would fall madly in love with me.

"We're leaving in fifteen minutes! Why didn't you pack last night?"

"Because I was reading them last night," I say reasonably, getting up from the kitchen table. "How am I supposed to read books if they're in my suitcase?"

She shakes her head, glaring at me from her spot at the window, and I realise I've got plenty of time. Dad isn't even back from fishing. "Tell your sister to bring her bags down, too."

She turns back to the window, and I throw up my hands (behind her back, of course. I'm not going to get into a hand gesture war with Mum). Dom probably hasn't even started packing, let alone finished. At least I've done my clothes.

Dom is definitely a Dom. I sigh, sometimes, thinking of the possibilities, but there's just no way someone like her fits a name like Dominique. I open her door, half expecting to find she's snuck out with dad, but to my surprise she's in her room, knee-deep in clothes.

"Working hard, I see." I nod approvingly. "Mum wants your stuff down now."

She rolls her eyes. "Unless you're allowed to use magic at home and nobody told me, that's a bit impossible right now."

I shrug, and throw her a sisterly smile as I walk down the hall, whistling a happy tune. Or something. I'm not all that great at whistling, but I'm in that sort of mood, so I'm determined to try.

Teddy can do this thing where he whistles through his teeth, so the sound comes out but he doesn't move his lips at all. It's pretty cool, actually, because he has awesome control over what pitch (is that the word? I have a feeling I should know, being a creative type and all, but music lessons were never really my forte) comes out. Secretly I wish I could do it, but I'd never dream of asking. I can't bear to face that smirk on his face, dammit.

My bags are packed. I wasn't lying when I said that. There's just all my writing stuff to go -

- And admittedly there is a lot of it. I just bought this great new set of inks, actually. There are eight of them in the pack, and they come in this little wicker basket with a picnic blanket underneath. It sounds stupid but it's actually really useful for absorbing spills.

I don't think that was the purpose of it, though.

I really love ink. No-one else understands it. It's probably because I'm a writer, so I feel a special affinity with writing materials. It's just - blue isn't just blue, no matter what Dom says. Sometimes you feel like being serious, so you choose a dark navy with a really thin nib, maybe even an italic, and you write in beautiful flowing cursive about the meaning of life and the origins of magic. And other times you just want to rant in your diary about boys and pimples, and you pick up a nice thick aquamarine and dot your i's with little hearts. I don't understand how she can't see the difference.

Then again I can't remember the last time she picked up a quill.

I pack up the ink set and roll up my empty parchment. There's one page with writing on it, but I shove it into my bag without looking at it. I've got plenty of time to improve my writing, I tell myself uneasily.

I look around the room, but there's really nothing left to take. Everything's already in the trunk, except my journal and my favourite quill - they'll go in my backpack for the train.

"Trunk's ready!" I yell down to mum.

"Well, bring it down, then!"

She's glaring at me through the ceiling, I can tell.

At least we're not at the Burrow this year. Last year we all camped out there - yup, the entire Weasley family - and went to King's Cross from there. Honestly, she has nothing to worry about here. Nothing can compare to the chaos that was the Weasleys on the 31st of August...

"Can't you levitate it or something?" I beg, peaking my head down the staircase. "It's really heavy."

She narrows her eyes up at me. "Maybe if you took out the ten pounds worth of ink you have in there -"

"Fine, I'll carry it!"

See, this is the reason heroines in books are always only children. It's so - what was the word I used before? - _mundane_. Everything about family life is. No-one in books ever worries about carrying trunks down.

Because it's bloody awkward.

I probably shouldn't swear, should I? Mum doesn't let us, but I reckon it's part of my evolution as a writer. Okay, so _bloody_ isn't exactly edgy and dark, but it still feels a bit naughty to me. And that's the main thing, you know? You have to push past your boundaries if you're going to get anywhere with your work.

At least that's what Ask Amy said in the latest issue of Writer's Quill Quarterly.

Or even if they do have to carry down their trunks, it's because their evil stepmother forces them to carry all the family's trunks, like a house-elf. And they never talk about the actual carrying down of the trunks. It's always something like -

_Victoire sighed, as she lifted the last of her stepsisters' trunks. They were filled to the brim with ballgowns and dancing slippers, and for a fleeting instant she allowed herself to imagine herself in one of them, a delicate tiara resting on her golden curls..._

See? No mention of how you can't quite see the next step past the trunk, and you reach down awkwardly and have to sort of wave your leg around until you feel the floor underneath you. Or how awkward the rectangle is as a shape. Especially when you're trying to go around the corner where the stairs turn - you'd think that'd be the easy bit, wouldn't you, because it's flat? Wrong! - and you're trying to turn the trunk along with it, right? But of course it doesn't work, because the trunk's wider than the turn, and you realise you're going to have to flip it around, and you wince at the thought of your brand new inks spilling all over your first-day robes -

"If the wind turns now, your face will stay like that forever."

I nearly drop the trunk on my toes. "Teddy! What are you doing here?"

He points over his shoulder at dad, who's just walked in the door absolutely covered in sea foam. "Couldn't miss seeing you off on the train, could I?"

I scowl, and plonk the trunk back on the floor. "Liar. You're just coming to gloat because you don't have to go this year."

"You doubt my loyalty to my favourite cousins?"

"We're only your favourite cousins because we live at the beach!"

"Blasphemy." He comes up the stairs and grabs my trunk. I feel like a bit of an idiot, but mostly I'm glad I won't have to repeat the disaster that was the last flight of stairs.

He sets it down on the floor, on its side. I groan, knowing he's bound to have knocked everything around in there.

He notices my expression. "You're not worried about your inks, are you? Because if you expect your trunk's gonna sit flat on the ground the whole trip from here to Hogwarts, you're bonkers. Morning, Mrs Weasley! Looking forward to having the house to yourself again?"

Mum raises one eyebrow - another thing I wish I could do. "If Bill spends the rest of the school term fishing I will have it entirely to myself." Dad opens up the bag containing his catch of the morning, and she turns to face him, hands on her hips. "Out! How many times do I have to tell you to clean them before entering my house!"

Her house, huh? It's obvious who wears the pants around Shell Cottage...

Teddy's already helping himself to an apple, and as he crunches - ugh, I can hear him chewing - Dom comes down the stairs, bag-free. "Oi, dad," she yells. "Trunk."

"Coming, honey," he says benevolently.

Great word, benevolently.

Except when it means your sister's getting a free ride, dammit!

Teddy looks like he's about to say something, so I deliberately school my expression and try to remember my happy whistling mood.

"Five minutes," mum says.

"Don't worry, Mrs Weasley," Teddy tells her. "Bill's very good at carrying Dom's trunks."

"Because he does it every year!" I interrupt, and he winks. I feel like even more of an idiot.

Still, at least I'll be free of Teddy-related annoyances for a term, at least. Don't get me wrong. I like Teddy. He's great fun. He's just...

Okay, this is going to sound really weird. Teddy Lupin, to me, is underwear hanging on the washing line. Yeah, I was right, that does sound weird. I'll start from the beginning.

When we were little, we hung up our washing on this wire dad had strung between two trees. It drove mum mad, actually. One of my earliest memories is her yelling at dad for the millionth time about when they were finally going to get a proper washing line. A real domestic, you'll say, and it's a good word, actually. Domestic. Of or relating to the home. I'm not actually sure if that's the real definition, but I've learnt that if you add "of or relating to" in front of whatever you were going to say, you end up sounding like a walking dictionary. It's a pretty cool trick, actually.

Anyway, these particular two trees were right in front of the kitchen window. And whenever we had guests over, they'd sit at the kitchen table and stare straight out at them - and by extension, at what was hanging on the wire between them.

Namely, my frilly pink underwear.

We never got a proper line until I was in, what, fourth year? It became a bit of a running joke, actually, for everyone except me. Even mum eventually started seeing the funny side. But I was fourteen, okay? What fourteen-year-old wants all her friends to see her underwear hanging right in front of their faces?

And you know what? Teddy Lupin didn't even care. In fact, he said once he didn't even _notice_. Ha. I snorted at him when he said that - getting cordial all over my dress, of course - and the idiot told me I didn't need frilly underwear to embarrass me, because I could do that well enough myself.

Bastard.

And I don't even feel dirty saying that.

But that's just it, isn't it? He's the sort of person who knows stuff about you that you hide from the rest of the world. He knows I wear frilly pink underwear. Which I don't! Ever since I started buying my own I've gone for small and white and completely unremarkable. But we don't have that washing line any more, so he can't see my much improved taste in underwear.

I mean, not that I want Teddy Lupin seeing my underwear.

You know what I mean.

He's just... there, like an annoying older brother, except an annoying older brother would occasionally do nice things like offer to beat people up, or sneak drinks for me from dad's cupboard, or perhaps bring cute friends home from school for the holidays.

Teddy just stands there and laughs.

And chews. "Stop crunching, dammit," I hiss at him, under my breath.

It doesn't work. "Don't swear, Victoire," dad tells me from the top of the staircase, as he reappears with Dom's stuff. The latch on her trunk looks a bit strained, and I feel a moment of pride in my superior packing ability. If I'm going to roam all around Europe with just my journal and a quill, I have to learn to pack light, right?

"Geez, Dom," Teddy exclaims, ignoring me. "How much stuff do you have in there? Surely you can't need that many clothes?"

"Of course that's not clothes, idiot," I say, exasperated. "It's all her Quidditch gear. She probably only had space for one shirt the entire year."

Dom pokes her tongue at me, and jumps on the bannister to slide down the rest of the staircase. Mum doesn't comment, because mum doesn't even notice. How does Dom always get away with this stuff?

"That's it," mum announces, and I realise Dom's trunk has reached the bottom floor. No thanks to Dom. I glare at her, but I suddenly realise what mum meant.

"Hang on, we're leaving now?"

Mum doesn't answer. She doesn't do any gestures either, but she can do amazing things with her eyebrows.

Dad swings Dom's trunk up again - he's barely put it down, poor bloke, you'd think she'd help him, wouldn't you? He nods his head at Teddy, who throws his apple core in the bin and heads for mine.

No. He was right about the inks. There's no way I'm letting them be thrown around all the way to Scotland.

"Realised I was right?" he asks with a smirk, but he opens up the trunk and hands me what I'm looking for. I'm not sure whether to hope my white underwear's visible or not, but I can't get a good look from the other side of the trunk. He hasn't made any comments, so either he's saving them for later or there's nothing objectionable on the top layer.

I'm tempted to tell him anyway, but I realise it'd probably sound really odd in current company.

Most of which has left the room already, actually. I look around, and realise Teddy and I are the only ones left.

I give him a look. Then I give the trunk a look. Then Teddy stands up.

"What?" he asks, still grinning. He always looks like that. Like he's chewing gum. He's not, but he always looks like he's about to pop it at you. "You're not expecting me to carry that outside, are you?"

"I took it all the way down the stairs!"

He snorts. "You barely managed half," he reminds me, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walks out the front door, whistling.

"You're just showing off!" I yell after him.

Fine. I don't need Teddy's help. Without the inks there's hardly anything in the trunk - worth worrying about, anyway - so I yank it up and shuffle awkwardly after the others.

There aren't any awkward shuffles in books, either.

We're going to King's Cross by Portkey this year. Well, just outside of it. Which probably means I'll have to lug this thing a couple of miles down some Muggle road with everyone watching. Last year we were at the Burrow, so we took Uncle Harry's Ministry cars and pulled up right outside the station.

Why can't dad work at the Ministry?

Everyone else is standing around the can already. Mum glares at me, looking pointedly at her watch, and suddenly Teddy gives a 'hurry up' gesture and I realise she's not just trying to be organised and early -

The Portkey!

I try to run, but I've got my trunk right behind me and it's dragging along in the soft sand - suddenly it's not just mum and Teddy, everyone's yelling at me, but I'm nearly there - two more metres - I just need a finger -

I dive for the can.

They disappear.

And the weight of my trunk throws me forward, and I land with a grunt on a patch of weeds.

I've missed the Portkey.

"Real smooth, Vicky," comes a voice to my right.

"Teddy?"

He's sitting on the ground, hands stretched out behind him and sand all over his legs. "What - the Portkey -"

"You missed it. I would have thought that was obvious. Have a nice trip, by the way?"

Insufferable! I throw a handful of sand at him and try to get up.

Ouch.

"Teddy?" I say again, this time for a completely different reason. "Teddy, my foot hurts."

"Your foot?" His gaze travels down my legs - then he jumps up. "Merlin, Vicky, that's not bloody surprising. Your trunk full of that damn ink fell on top of it."

I try to tell him a) that I've already taken all the ink out of it and b) not to call me Vicky ever again - and then I look down at my foot. My bleeding ankle. My bleeding ankle, which is bent at an angle no ankle, bleeding or otherwise, should ever be bent.

"That, uh, doesn't look good," I say, after a minute of silence where we're both staring at my foot.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

I move it experimentally, wincing. "It feels sore. But I can't feel the cut."

"You can damn well see it," he mutters, looking down at the blood. "Here, I'll try to whip something up for it. Don't move, you'll get sand in it."

See, this is what I mean about Teddy. He's always there at the most awkward moments possible. And - despite what it probably sounds like - this is not a romantic situation in the slightest. I'm lying on my back and my top is all skew, and Teddy's kneeling in front of my ankle and I'm suddenly wondering about whether I've got dirt under my toenails.

Toenails! I shudder, and Teddy looks sharply at me. "Are you alright?" He's pulled out a first-aid box from somewhere and he's just started applying some herb I've never heard of.

I can't tell him about the toenail thing. Why would I be worrying about toenails? I try sort of pointing my toes, so he can't see, but it doesn't work because my sandals have such a thick sole and they refuse to bend - plus it hurts like hell, so I put them back. They look fine, I think, but there's a dark mark on the third toe from the left and I don't know if it's sand from this morning or just a shadow.

"Vicky?" he asks again, sitting up.

"What? I'm fine," I say quickly. "Just, uh, stung a bit."

He nods, and returns to his work. "Relax your foot, you're making the bleeding worse."

What a disgusting, mundane, private, stupid thing to be worrying about. I can't believe myself. It's just what happens when Teddy's around, you see. Any other guy and I'd be swooning at the thought of him fixing my broken ankle.

_"How does that feel?" the dark-haired stranger whispered to her. Around them, the night's wind roared, and he had to lean close to her blushing cheek to say the words. The intimacy shuddered through her, and suddenly the intrigue and the mystery of the evening overcame her. _

_"Kiss me," she whispered back, instead of answering him..._

"How's that?" Teddy asks suddenly, nowhere near my blushing cheek. He's bandaged up my ankle with a sort of splint, and I try to stand up.

Ouch, again.

It doesn't seem so bad, now. Whatever he did seems to have made the pain - not go away, but disappear to a distant part of my brain so I only have to acknowledge it as an intellectual curiosity.

Not that I can stand on it.

Teddy rolls his eyes. "Don't try to stand on it, you idiot." He looks around, then makes a decision: "Come, I'll help you up. I'll take you side-along to the station."

"What about my bags?" I ask, as he helps me up. Again, any other guy I'd be clinging to his neck and swooning, but with Teddy it's more of an awkward shoulder hug that doesn't quite work out, because I fall over a bit and he has to grab my wrist to stop me.

"I'll come back for them later, or your dad will. We'll get them to Hogwarts some other way."

"My train bag?"

"Right." He looks at me, then at the bag, currently lying three feet away, stuck to another patch of weeds. "We're going to have to wobble together, aren't we?"

I roll my eyes. "Teddy. Are you seventeen or what?"

"I'm eighteen!" he protests - then realises what I meant, and his face turns red - and not because he's using his Metamorphagus powers. "_Accio_ bag," he mutters, and I laugh.

"Idiot."

"Don't insult the guy who's about to take you side-along," he warns, and with a whoosh, our feet leave the ground. I haven't gone side-along in ages, and the squeezing sensation nearly kills me.

Except for my ankle, which is interesting. The pressure is actually rather comfortable -

And then we land, and I look around to see where he's taken us. "A bathroom?"

"Disabled loo, platform nine, King's Cross Station," Teddy announces proudly, as though he's showing off a ballroom to the Minister for Magic. "Oh, shut up, it was the closest I could get you. And no-one's going to comment about us being in here together, because you're obviously out of it."

I try to protest, but he's already looking around the room. "What if someone had been in here?" I squeak, and he rolls his eyes.

"That's what memory charms are for."

"Teddy Lupin! You can't just go modifying the memories of every Muggle you meet!"

He shrugs. "To be honest? I didn't really think about it. More important things to worry about. Now, for the final touch -"

He transfigures a pair of crutches from the pile of empty loo rolls. "Don't lean on these," he warns, handing them to me. "They're basically cardboard."

I use one of them to smack him on the shoulder. "Hurry up, or we're gonna miss the train."

"Like you missed the Portkey?"

"Shut up!"

He holds open the door for me as I hobble through. None of the Muggles notice us, and moments later we're crossing the gate and arriving on platform nine-and-three-quarters.

"Victoire!" someone calls out. "You missed the Portkey, you silly girl -"

Mum. Suddenly I'm grateful for the busted ankle. "I tripped just as it left. Teddy helped me fix it up."

She's already kneeling in front of it, checking out Teddy's handiwork. She sniffs, then finally admits it'll hold until I get to Hogwarts. "But go to the hospital wing as soon as you get there, understand?"

"If you get there," Teddy says loudly. "Not to ruin the very touching family reunion, but the train's about to leave..."

I'm absolutely not going to miss the train! I've had enough drama for one morning. I hobble over to the closest doors, with mum's assistance, just as the train whistles out its final call for passengers. "I'll write!" I call to mum and Teddy, and I manage a wave to dad and the rest of the Weasleys just as the train begins moving.

Turns out it's surprisingly easy to get a seat on the Hogwarts Express when you're on crutches - even fake ones. I can't find my friends, but a group of first years conveniently vacate a compartment for me - lovely young people - and I sit back with my leg up and wait for them to come to me.

Teddy has done a pretty good job, I have to admit. The bandage is really neat, something that appeals to me - there's a lot of romance in having a desk piled with parchment and quills, but you do want medicine to be a little more structured - and I can barely feel the pain, except when I move it. Teddy's going to be a gamekeeper this year, so I guess he has to be good at first aid...

I take a peak at my toes. Dirt-free, I decide with a grin, and settle down for another year at Hogwarts.

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><p><strong>AN: I know you're not supposed to write notes saying not to read your story, but you'll forgive me this time, right? This is my NaNoWriMo story at the moment, and I'm currently staring at the massive Rose/Scorpius fic I wrote last year and never got around to editing and/or finishing. I'm fairly close to finishing this story, but anyone who's ever done NaNo will realise it'll require ages' worth of editing after November. So I'm posting this first chapter up to force myself into finishing!**

**So. Warnings. This is fluff, there is no plotline beyond high school drama, it'll be long and I'm not going to update for ages (although once I do they'll come fairly quickly). But hopefully someone out there likes it, to inspire me to actually finish a NaNo story for once :) thanks for reading...  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: not my world.**

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><p><em>Dear Teddy, <em>

_You'll notice I said 'dear' there. It's not a coincidence. _

_I mean, obviously it isn't a coincidence. Everyone starts their letters with 'dear'. But I can't remember the last time I addressed a letter to you that didn't begin with some variation of 'Teddy, you monster', so in this case it's definitely something remarkable. I hope, as you opened this letter, and Owl squeaked over your head and possibly defouled your writing desk, you noticed the 'dear', and perhaps even remarked upon it. _

_Because Finnlay is in fine form this year, and next to him Teddy the monster is turning out quite angelic._

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><p>To be honest? I'm actually a really normal person. You know when people (girls) introduce themselves, and the first thing every one of them says is "I'm really weird, you probably won't like me"? Well, I'm not. I tried saying that last year, when I went through that wearing-all-black phase - it's the writer thing again, don't kill me - but then I decided it was just stupid. I'm very average. A student, the occasional E. A few friends. Some nondescript hobbies.<p>

But all that's about to change.

I'm not allowed to think it, but I'm about to become the heroine of my very own story.

"What's that disgusting thing on the end of your leg, Weasley?"

"What? You mean her foot?"

Finnlay Thomas. My arch-nemesis. My heart skips a beat as he comes around the corner, and I tell myself it's because I'm trying to think of a comeback. But my tongue freezes. For some mysterious reason. Yeah.

"What's the matter, Weasley? Cat mauled your tongue as well as your leg?"

Tom Spencer's there as well, and I scowl at him. "'Mauled', huh? You've finally learnt a word longer than five letters long?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Weasley. He's just parroting what I said on the train. Don't start getting ideas about his vocabulary."

"Nice way to treat your friends," I tell him. I'm planning my dramatic exit, but somehow I don't think it's going to work. Damn ankle.

And I can't leave on such a lame comeback!

Finn laughs. "Who said we were friends?"

"I assumed that was why you spent so much time with him - but maybe I misinterpreted the situation." I give the two of them a significant look, and Tom scowls.

"Shut up, Weasley," is Tom's only response, and even Finn rolls his eyes.

We've barely been back at Hogwarts three hours, and already Finn and Tom are ganging up on me. It's odd, isn't it? But I'm not allowed to think that, I remind myself...

I look away to distract myself. I realise we're near the trophy room, and a tingle of nostalgia washes over me. Maybe I should start getting detentions again?

I laugh out loud. I'm crap at getting detentions. I tried my hardest last year to get at least a few under my belt - you know, to go with the black jeans and angsty journal entries. But I just don't seem to have the imagination. You'd think I would, wouldn't you? I never have any problem getting my fictional characters into trouble.

"You must have gone mad, hey?" Finn drawls, and I jump. "Don't think anyone's ever laughed at anything Spencer's said before."

I decide I'm sick of Finnlay for the night. (I have to, don't I? I've been prolonging this conversation too long as it is!) "You know, I've never quite worked out why you hang out with this idiot," I say idly to Tom, and hobble off as gracefully as I can.

"I get to watch him make fun of everyone else," comes the reply from behind me, underneath the rattle of Finn's snickers. Bloody Slytherins. Can't they just... go to bed, like everyone else?

Probably can't sleep in that dungeon. What with all the pipes leaking on them all night.

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><p>"I can't believe you're not taking Care of Magical Creatures!"<p>

Betsy yanks her foot up to her bed to tie her shoelace. "Don't put your shoes on the bed," Georgia tells her absent-mindedly, more out of habit than anything else.

"What? My shoe needs tying. And -" she looks over at me - "my shoes'll be a lot cleaner now that I'm no longer mucking out the Hippogriff yard with Yardley."

"Ahh." I tap the side of my nose, like the very wise being that I am. "You've gone all prissy on us."

Betsy throws a sock at me, and Georgia rolls her eyes.

"What've you got, then?" I ask. I've got Care of Magical Creatures first up. It seems like a bit of an odd choice for me, doesn't it? But NEWT-level looks really interesting - lots of more exotic creatures than we've encountered before. Moroccan desert pixies first up, if Yardley goes by the book, which she will. That probably fits exactly with your impression of me, doesn't it?

Not that you think I'm exotic. But you might think I like imagining I am.

(But yeah, _Vicky_ Weasley? Honestly. )

I notice Georgia carefully straightening her textbooks. Guiltily, I eye the paperback sitting on my bedside table. It looks a bit out of place in Hogwarts Castle, actually. No-one ever reads normal books here. They just read textbooks, and of course they're all five-thousand-year-old hardbacks.

And they're a bit weighty sometimes.

I am not only an ink connoisseur, you see. I've spent enough time reading romance novels under the covers - apparently _Wand of Desire_ isn't appropriate reading for a twelve-year-old? - to know my stuff. And my eagerness for Moroccan pixies this morning probably has more to do with the heroine of _Bewitching the Sheikh_ than any lofty academic interest...

"Astronomy. You taking that this year, George?"

"Nah, dropped it for Divination."

"Divination?" Betsy echoes in horror, and I laugh.

I took Divination last year. Complete load of rubbish, which probably explains why it was my only Outstanding O.W.L. Turns out a highly active imagination can be useful for something...

Still, I'm surprised Georgia's taking it at N.E.W.T. level. I know she's not intending to do much after Hogwarts, but you'd think she'd choose subjects that would keep her options open. Unless she wants to be a seer...

"Think you've got the Sight?" I tease, packing the paperback into my bag. Betsy's already ready, so we head down to breakfast together, this fine first morning of sixth year. Or something. I've been trying to practise my descriptions but it just doesn't seem to come naturally to me, you know?

I guess as long as I can get the chapter list thing going I won't need to write them.

"Shut up. No, just felt like a bit of a bludge subject to go along with Potions. Me, taking Potions? Can you imagine it?"

If I'm quite honest, not really, but I do the supportive best friend thing and nod encouragingly or something. Betsy's not so kind: "You are aware that Brueman's gonna kick you out the minute you fail your first potion."

She's kind of right. Georgia's crap at Potions. And apparently it's quite tough for NEWTs.

Aren't I glad I'll never get the chance to find out?

"Enjoy yourselves in the dungeons," I tell them as we arrive in the Great Hall. Ah, excellent - there's three seats right up the front, so I won't have to walk all the way down the table.

I nearly slipped in the shower this morning. I always get up earlier than the rest of them - force of habit from living right on the beach, the damn sunrise reflects right off the sea and into my bedroom window. They got an early morning wake-up call this morning though, the lazy buggers - I swear I woke up the whole tower let alone the sixth-year girls' dorm!

Not my fault though. I'm Injured.

"Enjoy yourself with the Hippogriffs." Betsy plops down on the bench, already grabbing a cinnamon muffin, and I awkwardly manoeuvre myself down next to her.

"Shut up. We're doing Moroccan desert pixies this term, anyway. As you'd know if you had any loyalty whatsoever." I shove a forkload of eggs into my mouth. "What's up first for you guys?"

"Eat with your mouth closed," Georgia tells me immediately. "Dunno, actually. Haven't checked my timetable yet."

It's Betsy's turn to roll her eyes. "Don't you think you should have checked that, you know, before you came all the way down to the Great Hall without your books?"

"Why? I'll just copy off your notes. It's just the first day, anyway - what's the worst that could happen?"

Three hours later Georgia's nearly in tears and Betsy and I are trying desperately to get her to come out of the stall before Myrtle gets there.

"What happened?" I ask, my hands resting on my knees. Betsy grabbed me from lunch, just as I was about to start my bacon sandwich, saying Georgia'd gone and locked herself in the second-floor girls' bathroom. Great choice, George. That particular bathroom really treats crying girls well...

"Turns out Professor Brueman isn't all that impressed with students who don't take notes."

"You've gone and got detention already?" I yell at Georgia, still sobbing behind the door. I know I should be sympathetic, but how does she pick up detentions so easily? She got them all last year as well, just when I wanted them the most, and she refused to tell me her secrets:

_("Honestly, Vicky, I don't know why anyone would volunteer to spend Saturday night polishing trophies." _

_"For cred, dude, what else? And it's Victoire." _

_"Goodnight, Vicky.") _

Betsy glares at me, her green fingernails tapping the side of her thigh. It works though, because the sobbing from the other side of door subsides for a moment: "Would you shut up about the detention thing already?"

"I told you, I'm going straight this year -"

Georgia unlocks the door. "If you end that sentence with _man_ or _dude_ I will throttle you."

"Ha! You're out!" I manoeuvre myself between her and the door, and she rolls her eyes as she gives Betsy and me each a hug.

"Overreacted a bit there, didn't I?" she admits, and I laugh.

"Brueman can't still be that much of a bitch, surely? Not to NEWT students?"

"Even got me nervous," the ever-unrattled Betsy confirms. "Don't look now, but you're standing in a puddle."

Forgetting the rather pertinent fact that I have a possibly sprained ankle, I leap aside -

"Maybe I should go to the Hospital Wing..." I say a moment later, from my vantage point on the floor.

Hey, at least Georgia isn't crying any more. "We are definitely taking you to the Hospital Wing right now, young lady," she tells me reprovingly. She mutters something else about _last night _ and _why didn't you, _but I'm too busy thinking about how glad I am that I've got Georgia in my life. When else would I be able to use 'reprovingly' in a sentence?

"I'd love to, but there's a slight problem..."

Betsy realises. I'm also glad at least one of my friends isn't daft. She offers me her hand, and I try to pull myself up -

Only to realise that something is pretty seriously wrong.

"I can't move my leg," I tell them, my voice surprisingly calm under the circumstances. "I'm not going to be able to walk to the Hospital Wing."

I can't believe it. First my ankle, now this? Merlin, I hope I haven't broken my leg. I broke my arm in second year and Dom, in first year at the time, tried to help me. I can report that the incident did not go well. Apparently I lost all the bones from my elbow down. Uncle Harry seemed vastly amused when I related the story to him...

I definitely don't feel like repeating the Skele-Gro experience, so I'm relieved when Georgia - literally wringing her hands - offers to fetch a teacher. I mean, I'm sure my sixth-year friends have picked up a few more skills than Dom had after three weeks at Hogwarts - but I'm sort of in the mood for professional assistance right now.

My leg is absolutely killing me. I'm normally completely against hyperbole - no, I snub my nose at it, the amateur writer's substitute for subtlety - but you know what? Screw subtlety.

(See? Wouldn't that sentence have been greatly improved with a harsher expletive? I really need to harden up on the swearing thing.)

Madame Pomfrey-Baggins arrives in a flutter. Quicker than I expected - Hogwarts has its ways, I suppose - but I don't particularly care about the details. Before I know it I'm being levitated between Betsy and Nurse, and we make it out of the bathroom just as - from the sudden rattling of the pipes - Myrtle arrives.

"You know, Muggles invented stretchers for a reason," I say grumpily under my breath. Nurse is busy fiddling with the potions in her belt, so the statement's directed at Betsy, who rolls her eyes.

"Probably has something to do with being limited by gravity."

"Shut up. They're the ones who invented aeroplanes, I hardly think gravity is what's stopping them from levitation. No, it's because you feel pretty fricking weird balancing in the middle of nowhere with nothing to stop you -"

"I didn't think sprained ankles required an escort these days."

Betsy swivels, and from my vantage point - this one a little higher off the ground - I have a close-up view of her clutching her quill.

"Finnlay," she says finally, giving him a short nod.

He's blocking the path. He doesn't have Tom with him this afternoon, but it's hardly an improvement. At least when Tom's there you can direct your witty comments at someone who can't fight back.

"Excuse me," Nurse says, wringing her hands. Maybe Nurse and Georgia are related. They both have that vague sort of uneasiness to them - only Georgia covers it up better than her. Which means her father must have been someone a lot more confident...

_"I'm sorry I never told you who your father was," Rosie admitted, her eyes a distant fog. Georgia looked away, not sure what to think of the end of this speech. Her whole life she'd been told she was a Muggle, adopted but with magical powers - and now to learn she was the daughter of the most famous wizard alive -_

"Oh, I'm sorry, Madame Pomfrey-Baggins," Finn interrupts, and for once in my life I'm oddly grateful to him because I have a funny feeling the next words in that daydream would have been _Harry Potter_. And I like Aunt Ginny too much to have her cuckolded in one of my stories - even if it is a daydream. Even if cuckolded probably only applies to men. I'll have to look it up later.

"Would you like some help with Miss Weasley?" he continues, and I glare at him. All thought of gratefulness has been revoked, I try to tell him through my stare.

I wish I could add haughtily to that sentence. I've always wanted a _haughty stare_. It sounds so - upper-class. French.

"I'm sure you have better things to be doing," Betsy says sharply, and she tries to push past him.

He moves over to me, gently - ha - pushing Madame Nurse out of the way. "I'm sure it'll be much easier for you to mix up those potions if you're not having to worry about Miss Weasley... falling."

...

The bastard! The complete and utter bastard! I try weakly to protest, but the sedative Madame Nurse gave me when she first saw me is beginning to take hold, and she's already letting him take over the spell. "Betsy," I choke, and she takes a deep breath, and suddenly I'm more worried about Betsy. Finnlay's going to drop me, and Betsy's going to be too busy being angry with him to do anything about it.

I already have one broken leg, thank you very much, I don't want another!

I close my fingers around my wand, glaring at Finnlay, and he smirks. "There's nothing wrong with my wand arm," I hiss, but he doesn't look threatened in the least.

Maybe dropping Defence was a bad move.

I decide to ignore Finnlay. He's just doing this to get attention, anyway. "So how many months will it be until you finish today's Potions?" I ask Betsy. I'm rather proud of the phrasing, actually. I've been working on dialogue a bit in my latest stories. Normally they're a bit description-heavy but I've decided to try something new.

Not that there's anything wrong with description, of course.

Although Teddy obviously doesn't agree. I left one of my favourite books lying around when he came over one day. I came down and caught him reading it while waiting for Dom and I to get ready (as it turned out, taking the extra time to apply some sunscreen would probably have been worth it). He thought it was rubbish after about two conversation-free paragraphs. How are you supposed to know if something's good after two paragraphs?

Not that I care about Teddy's opinion. I don't think I caught him with a book in his hands the entire summer. He went on and on about how hard NEWTs were - maybe if he hadn't been aiming for Outstandings across the board he could have actually left Griffindor Tower last year? But he just laughed and said he spent more time outside with the Hippogriffs, anyway. And that I'd understand when I was older.

Which is a blatant lie. I was the one who spent all my time with the Hippogriffs and Teddy was nowhere to be seen. And sure NEWTs are harder - they're not called Nastily Exhausting for nothing - but I've just got through my OWLs (and passed all of them too) and I'm pretty sure I put just as much work into them, thank you very much. And I'm sure come seventh year I won't have changed my stance on Outstandings in the slightest.

"She didn't set us any homework," Betsy answers, an edge in her voice as she glares at Finnlay, and I give a guilty start as I remember where I am again. I've got to stop drifting off like that - especially when my life is (literally) in the hands of Finnlay Thomas.

"Really?" I ask in surprise. "We got Creatures homework five minutes into the class. And Brueman's the one who set you five scrolls' worth of holiday reading."

"That why you're faking the leg?" Finnlay interrupts. Madame Pomfrey-Baggins is walking ahead of us now, so I suppose he figures he can drop the act. "Care of Magical Creatures too tough for you?"

I wish I could slap him, but at the height I'm currently suspended it'd probably be grounds for sexual assault. "That why you're talking all sweet to Nurse? Figure you need the... extra help... for Potions?"

He winks, and both Betsy and I practically gag. "Maybe I'm reviving an old relationship."

"Uh, sure. Gonna head off and find Brueman after lunch?" I click my fingers. "So that was your OWL strategy last year."

"Beat yours, didn't it?" he says with a smirk, and I flush.

How come villains are always so good at smirking? I've tried it myself in the mirror and it always comes out as this horrific grimace. I tried it in combination with a wink once and I looked like I'd cursed my face.

A staircase turns, and suddenly we're outside the hospital wing. Wait, what? I made it to the hospital wing without being accidentally thrown off a staircase? "What's your deal?" I hiss at Finnlay, instead of answering him.

"What's the problem?" he asks, but from that - can you smirk with your eyes? - look on his face I just know he knows what I'm talking about.

But I suppose Madame Nurse is right behind him. He can't exactly reveal his dastardly plans in front of her.

"Yes, yes, that bed there," she's saying to Betsy, which is a bit pointless really since it's still Finn's wand that's doing the levitating.

He swings me over with a jerk - "Sorry," he says insincerely - and just like that I'm deposited on the bed. I clutch the pillow in shock, still not entirely convinced I've made it to safety, but with a nod to Betsy and a final smirk in my direction he's gone.

"The hell?" I mutter, but Betsy doesn't reply because Madame Nurse is fussing over me again.

"Plenty of bed rest," she advises, or something like that anyway. I'm not really paying attention, I'm just assuming she's saying the same thing she says to anyone who ends up in her hospital wing. Probably something about what pills to take when, what times I'm permitted to go to the bathroom, "this won't hurt a bit" -

Wouldn't it be dramatic if she suddenly stuck a needle into me, right at that moment? Life is always like that for me. I'm composing a narration of my life, as you do, and just as I reach the end of a three-element list - always three, don't fall for the trap of having even numbers - I make a dramatic point that should therefore by the rules of every novel in existence come true at that exact moment -

And does it? No! You just keep walking down the corridor. The best friend you've been mentally berating doesn't pop out from behind a corner, and neither does the cute guy you've just realised you have a massive thing for.

Oops, two-element list. Can't add anything now, I've ruined it.

That's the thing with writing passages in your head. If you're writing on paper or parchment you can rewrite as you please. But narrating your life is a one-time thing. Once it's been thought, it's been thought. That's it. No edits, no crossing out.

No second drafts.

Suddenly Georgia bursts into the room. She stares at Nurse, who looks like she's about to berate her for disturbing her patients but swiftly realises Georgia is a fellow hand-wringer. They share a look, probably about Georgia's mysterious father, and after a moment Nurse nods, with only the faintest of furrow on her brow to show her displeasure.

"Are you alright?" Georgia mouths, as Nurse continues her ministrations. I've always liked that word. Ministrations.

I mentioned it once at the dinner table last year. No-one paid any attention except Teddy, and all he did was snicker and tell me I should look it up in the dictionary.

I nod to Georgia, and finally Nurse closes the curtains. It feels a bit odd because it's still midday, and she expects me to sleep?

"Miss McCall, Miss Taylor, you may visit Miss Weasley tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning?" I cry, clutching the bedsheet. "What am I supposed to do until tomorrow morning?"

She looks at me sternly. "Your bones are realigning. How do you expect to do that while gallivanting between classes?"

Gallivanting? Excellent word, but I'd hardly use it to describe the dreary walk up from the grounds to the Transfig classroom.

"Besides," she says, and this time she _is_ clutching a large vial of ominous-looking potion, "you're hardly going to notice the time once this kicks in..."

* * *

><p><em>I'm in the Hospital Wing. It's something like 5am - I can't see a clock anywhere, and Madame Pomfrey-Baggins would kill me if she knew I was up - so I'm writing by the moonlight at the window. Had to drag myself over a bit because my leg hasn't properly healed - Madame P-B may or may not have said something about twenty-four hours bed rest - oh! You're probably wondering why a sprained ankle needs that long to heal, don't you? The answer, of course, is that I may or may not have -<em>

I've already used that phrase once this paragraph. Better cross it out.

No, then he'll laugh at me for overthinking my letters again. I'll leave it in. I'll just pretend that little line through the 'may' was an accident. Maybe a drop of ink as well, to complete the effect -

_Sorry about that. Had a bit of a mishap with my ink bottle. Anyway, the main point of that last paragraph was that I broke my leg and now I'm writing from the Hospital Wing. _

_It's quite romantic. It's 5am, and the sun's just starting to come up over the lake. I feel like a proper writer now, don't laugh - the dawn, the lake, the castle... Okay, so the clean white beds on either side of me sort of ruin the effect, but that's alright. I'm sure Madame Nurse will let me go back tonight, and then I'll have red-curtained four-posters as my backdrop. _

_I love Hogwarts. _

_What's it like being away? I was really hoping you'd have a dramatic moment at King's Cross, as you watched the rest of us disappear over the horizon for another year of school, while you realised that now was the time your life could truly begin - or something. But then that spinifex ruined it, so I have to ask - has it? How's work? Have you started yet? Decided to throw it all in to go sip coffee in Vienna? Because I would totally understand if you did. _

_Dammit, now I want to go to Vienna. _

_I think Madame Nurse's waking up, so I'd better run - give Owl a treat - don't beat him up too bad when he moults all over your paperwork - _

_Victoire_

I hurriedly tie the parchment to Owl's foot, and he toots disapprovingly at the sight of the scrunched-up paper.

"Shh," I tell him, as I try to push him out the window. But birds have this annoying ability to fly, so he comes straight back and stares me down until I reluctantly roll the parchment up properly. I'm wasting precious time - time I could be using to get back into bed before Madame Nurse arrives -

"Miss Weasley!"

I turn away from the window, hands behind my back and eyes wide as saucers. At least I assume they are. I'm trying my best to look innocent but it's hard when I'm trying to furtively turn around and check that Owl's left the window.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asks, managing to sound disapproving even though the sun hasn't even come up yet. I'm almost tempted to ask how she does it, because every time I try to put on voices in the morning it just comes out as a throaty, squeaky growl. If you can imagine that. I think I could pull off 'troll' quite nicely...

That's why it's best if I keep my morning activities non-verbal. Like writing in front of the window. It's the best way I've found to maintain some of that French dignity I'm really running low on.

But I remind myself that this year I'm trying _not_ to get detentions, so I keep my mouth shut and meekly follow Madame Nurse's candle back to my bed.

"At least twenty-four hours of bed rest, what did I tell you?"

"I managed to walk to the window fine?" I volunteer, but the sentence drifts into silence as she stares me down -

And then breaks it off. Wiping her eyes, she mutters something about pretending this never happened, and I nod enthusiastically as I climb back under the covers.

"But you're not leaving this bed until tomorrow morning!" she yells suddenly.

Tomorrow morning? Bed rest I can take, but I'm not staying in the Hospital Wing a whole 'nother day. "Perhaps I could go this evening?" I ask cautiously, not wanting to rock the boat any further for fear she'll keep me here 'til next Tuesday.

She narrows her eyes. "We'll see how your leg is at dinner time," she concedes finally, and swoops back to her office without another word.

I'm definitely not staying here another night. Finnlay will never let me hear the end of it.

...I wonder why he was so nice yesterday?

I told you there was a story brewing!

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I put this aside for a while, and despite what I said in the last chapter about editing it all at once and then posting I'm slowly editing this chapter by chapter. I'm also quite conscious that I'm a) about to start exams and b) about to go overseas, so this is not going to be one of those stories with a regular update schedule! I still feel like I'm telling people not to read, but I also don't want to make promises I know I can't keep, so... I guess you should subscribe if you want to keep updated :) **

**Thanks for reading, and thanks to those who reviewed or subscribed to the last chapter - oh, and to the probably long-gone anonymous reviewer who was sad that this was fluff, don't worry, there is a proper plot! It's just not world-changing or epic, and probably says nothing profound about the human condition ;)  
><strong>


	3. Chapter 3

_("What's the parchment for?"_

_"It's the list of homework due tomorrow."_

_"It's a foot long!")_

* * *

><p>So Transfig took flipping ages.<p>

(Insert shiver of rebelliousness here.)

But Madame Nurse finally let me get out of the Hospital Wing. I wanted to calculate that I've spent more time in that sterile monstrosity (it's actually not too bad, but let me have my literary moment) than in the rest of the castle but that damn first day ruined that plan. Would have been dramatic though. Could have helped me milk my injury.

"What injury?" Betsy asks with a snort as I present myself at the Griffindor table.

I look down, and realise being able to walk from the Hospital Wing to the Great Hall again is not only convenient, it's also robbed me of the one interesting thing that's happened to me recently.

"Why can't I have been a Muggle?" I complain, sitting down with a plop and reaching for a glass of pumpkin juice. Muggle healing takes ages. You'd get weeks off school for breaking your leg.

"Why would you want to be a Muggle?" Georgia asks, and I look at her curiously. She's not following the rules. A naive but well-meaning Pureblood is supposed to ask that question, not a Muggle-born, only to be corrected by -

_*"Life isn't all about being able to do magic," David hissed dangerously, and I shivered. "Maybe you should be more considerate of your friends -*_

Merlin, that was crap. I hope that scene never sees the light of day - or the touch of parchment. Why would a hero who hissed things dangerously care about something as mundane as being nice to your mates?

_*"Life isn't all about being able to do magic," David hissed dangerously. "Sometimes it's about staying out of trouble."_

_I shivered, and suddenly he seemed much too close. "And sometimes it's about living in the moment," I whispered, leaning closer...*_

Ooh, scene! I wonder how that one would pan out. I lean over and reach into my bag for a scrap of parchment, but Betsy interrupts me with a roll of her eyes.

"Trust me, Vicky, no-one's going to want to read your epic about life as an undercover Muggle."

I stare at her. "Betsy, you're brilliant!" I yell, giving her an awkward table hug. It's perfect! That sorts out the mystery of who David is, anyway. I'm a witch undercover in a Muggle... what? It has to be something involving dangerous hissing and shivering...

"Georgia," I say suddenly, ignoring Betsy's looks of disgust. If Georgia's a hand-wringer, Betsy's definitely an eye-roller. "Georgia, you know how Muggles have the Office of Magical Law Enforcement?*"

"It's been a long three days since I was last in Muggle London, but considering they're Muggles, I highly doubt they're calling it Magical Law Enforcement." She tucks her fork neatly into her plate.

I wave mine around. "You know what I mean. Pollies."

"Police."

I glare at Betsy, but Georgia just shrugs. "I figure she has just as much reason to be asking about politics as she does the police."

"Yes, of course I mean the police, now would you lot -" bloody - "get on with it!"

Georgia still looks confused. "Yes. Muggles have police. We have Aurors. Why would that make you want to be a Muggle?"

"Oh, forget the Muggle bit, I just wanted to make a dramatic statement. Yeah, so Muggles have police, and we have Magical Law Enforcement, but we also have Aurors, and they go on top-secret missions and save the wizarding world or whatever -" that's how Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron describe it, anyway - "so what do Muggles have in place of that?"

And Betsy puts her head in her hands. "Merlin's drawers," I think she mutters, but I can't be sure. I use the opportunity to dive for the parchment again, and before long I'm ready with my favourite quill and a rather battered piece of my Transfig first draft.

Perfect for a Muggle culture interview.

My subject is being a little uncooperative, though.

"Uh... secret agents?" she says vaguely, finally, and I notice her neatly-placed fork jump a little to the left. It always happens when she's nervous.

"Come on, I could have said that."

"Well, you didn't, did you?"

"You're supposed to be the Muggle-born, surely you can come up with a better answer than 'secret agent'!"

I'm not watching her, but I assume Betsy's eyes roll back into her forehead and out the other end. "If you have a catfight over the mushy peas you'll both land back in the Hospital Wing," she tells us sharply, and after a long staring contest (we both lose when Georgia's fork jumps back into place, startling us) we acknowledge a truce. "Now what's with all the interrogation crap?"

"It's for my new story," I say vaguely. I'm desperate to tell them the plot, but I've learnt over the years that sometimes it's best to keep your ideas to yourself. At least until you've had time to iron out some of the major plotholes.

"You're not seriously going to write about being an undercover Muggle, are you?"

There's more to it than that! "You'll see it in Flourish and Blotts when it's finished," I say mysteriously. I want to sweep off dramatically, but I'm starving - Hospital Wing food was developed for children zero-to-three years, apparently, and in all the excitement of discovering David I haven't had a chance to empty my plate.

I'm glad we didn't fight on top of the mushy peas. They're really quite delicious.

"How'd your homework go?" Georgia asks, changing the subject. They've learnt not to get me too excited about my latest story...

(It's alright. I'm still mentally planning it in my head.

Well, of course in my head. Where else would you mentally plan something?)

"Wish I'd been able to sit in a room and just do it," Betsy says. "We've been in class all day. Least you could do it uninterrupted."

"I'm gonna have double the homework tomorrow, but that's completely fine, isn't it..."

"How was Transfig?" Georgia asks suddenly. "I went to the library to get started on it at lunch - " so that's where she went - "and Merlin, it was practically impossible! I spent about half an hour just on research!"

"Excellent, you can share it with me then," I say through a mouthful of potato.

Georgia frowns, but I know she'll give it to me anyway. "You really should learn to do your own research now we're taking NEWT subjects."

"Oh, come off it, we're only in sixth year."

"Sixth-year material is examinable!"

"Besides, I was in the Hospital Wing," I point out (with no trace of wheedling in my tone whatsoever). "How was I supposed to research from my bed?"

"She does have a point," Betsy says, but it's only so Georgia will share it with her, too. Not that she'll have a problem doing the homework. She's one of those irritating people who never has to do any work -

"That's what you are," I declare suddenly.

I really need to stop interrupting conversations halfway through a thought. Maybe I wouldn't get so many weird looks.

"A witch?" she asks drily.

"See! You did it again!"

She looks at Georgia, who just looks confused, as usual.

"You said something drily," I clarify, and for once Betsy doesn't roll her eyes.

"I said two words. How can you tell how I said it?"

I start to explain, but Georgia's quicker. "She's giving us adjectives again, isn't she?"

"Adjectives?" I know I'm supposed to stop derailing conversations but it's just too hard with Georgia. "Honestly, you went to a Muggle school for eleven years. Don't you just sit there and learn about all the different words in the English language?"

"Firstly, it was six years, and secondly, I'm sure I learnt all about adjectives, but I threw it all out when I realised I needed space in my brain for _sixth-year Transfiguration_!"

"Sheesh, calm down," I say, holding up my hands. "Maybe if you'd kept the section on adverbs we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Oh, and you spent so much time in a Muggle school yourself, did you?"

I open my mouth to remind her that I'm a writer, but Betsy interrupts us. "Why don't you get to the point?"

Ha! I knew it. Even dry-witted best friends love conversations about themselves.

"You're the smart best friend," I tell her quickly, before I lose my train of thought again. "Well, Georgia is - sort of - but she's a hand-wringer so it doesn't count -"

"What?!"

" - No, that's not quite the word - Betsy's the _red-headed_ best friend, don't you reckon?"

I address this last to Georgia, but it's Betsy who replies. "No, that's not right."

I look at her blankly.

"My hair's brown," she says, as if explaining to one of the aforementioned zero-to-three year olds.

"Don't you people read any books at all?" I shout, ready to tear my hair out in frustration.

A flicker of motion at my side. "Don't you think you're overestimating their intelligence?"

I was already about to burst - and now this?! "Finnlay Thomas, you get back to the Slytherin table before I punch your face in!"

He takes the empty seat next to me. Most people have left already - actually, only half the table was here when I got here, since Madame Nurse took so long with her damn checkup - so there's plenty of space. And he has to pick the one right next to me?

I'm determined not to continue that thought.

But it's hard.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss at him. I know you're not supposed to hiss unless there's an s in the sentence, but to be quite honest I'm not in the mood for writing rules right now.

"Just thought I'd make sure you're alright... after that nasty slip, and all..."

He's so. Arrogant. Arrogant is definitely the word. With just a few well-chosen pauses he's made it sound like he was the one who somehow guessed that PotionsMaster would upset Georgia, Georgia would go running to Moaning Myrtle, Betsy would drag me up to the bathroom, I'd happen to be standing in one particular spot in said bathroom -

But he can't have deliberately put that spill there. It's not that I don't think he'd do it. It's that the only reason I fell was that I'd sprained my ankle already, and even Slytherins don't have the power to rearrange spinifex on the beach.

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine."

"Oh, don't let me interrupt your conversation," he says smoothly. In fact, he's so smooth, he swipes a cinnamon tart a second before the dessert plates disappear from the table. I really do want to punch him in the face.

Especially because I wanted that cinnamon tart.

"In fact," he says between bites, somehow managing to chew quickly enough that he doesn't have to hold back the conversation, "you were just about to tell Betsy how perfect she was."

"See?!" I yell (I really should stop doing that at the dinner table). "Even this idiot understands the red-headed best friend theory!"

Maybe he's read more books than I've given him credit for.

"You think I'm perfect," Betsy says with interest. "Please tell me what that has to do with my hair colour."

"*This has nothing to do with anyone's hair!*" I nearly scream - and with Head's sudden disapproving stare at our little group, I realise that the sort of volume that's appropriate when the Hall's filled with hundreds of chattering students is probably not the same volume one should use when it's all but empty except for you and the Headmistress.

"Let's get out of here," I mutter to Betsy and Georgia. "I'll explain later."

"Sorry, what was that?" Finnlay asks loudly. "I think I went deaf a minute ago."

* * *

><p><em>You understand, don't you, Teddy? Dammit, I know you do, because you were the one who was all "Lacey's mate Ravenfire is a blatant author-insert, and what is with all the ginger love anyway" last year, so you've got first-hand experience with it. Finnlay and Betsy can mock all they want. It's not my fault they're behaving exactly as respectable secondary characters ought.<em>

(Fair play to me, though: I took his writing advice to heart. Hair colours of my snarkily-observant-best-friend characters since then: black, white-blonde, and one with a streak of purple across her fringe. But it was totally mousy brown underneath. And I went out of my way to not describe the colour of her eyes. See, Teddy? I _am_ growing as a writer!)

* * *

><p>"...And you're quite pretty, but, you know, a bit snarky, a bit off-the-wall. Well, not entirely off-the-wall, but you're witty enough to bounce conversations off - thanks, by the way, you've given me lots of dialogue ideas over the years -"<p>

"No way do you use dialogue from me in those stories of yours."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, for one thing you'd be published by now."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: as always**

* * *

><p>It's 5 o'clock. And I'm trying really hard to stay awake.<p>

I wouldn't admit it to anyone, but it's a lot harder to wake up this early when the sun isn't beating down on your window. But I like being up before anyone else. It's peaceful. You can hear the birds chirping, waking up, flying around with so much bloody energy I want to punch the window -

Okay, so the peaceful thing might not be the main reason I've decided to maintain my early-morning habit. It possibly, not that I am admitting anything, even in my head, might have something to do with wanting to show off in front of my friends. You know:

_"How do you stay up, Vicky?" - yawn_

_"I honestly don't know how you don't, Georgia." - gesture flamboyantly to window - "I just love seeing the early morning sunrise. And besides..." - gesture flamboyantly to writing desk - "... I find it so inspirational for my writing, being awake with the birds."_

_"When else would you have a sunrise? Midnight?"_

_"Go back to sleep, Betsy."_

But this year Georgia's decided she's going to study. Which I have nothing against. I fully support her in all her endeavours, as every good friend should.

The only problem is she's been getting up at six to do it.

So. Five o'clock. In the morning. It's pointless even talking about the sunrise, since it won't come up for another half an hour. Even at Shell Cottage I'd be fast asleep and dreaming...

I'm lying in bed, still, but I'm perfectly awake so if Georgia decides to get up before me I can tell her I just didn't want to disturb anyone. I'm confident I'm awake enough that my voice won't give me away, anyway.

I decided a few minutes ago to think about my new Muggle secret agent story, but it's just too hard to concentrate. If I'm going to get anywhere with it I've got to get up and physically start writing... at the desk... three metres away... with no pillows or blankets...

No, it's definitely better if I lie here and plan out the outline before I actually sit down to write. I'm sure I can come up with something if I really put my mind to it.

So. David.

David is a secret agent, which is convenient because if he isn't allowed to talk about his job then I won't have to describe it in particularly great detail. I'll just have him make a few mysterious comments about how _the real thing isn't anything like in the movies_, because a) that's true of pretty much every single career, ever and b) it'll give it a very Muggle-like atmosphere.

This'll be interesting, actually. Writing the point of view of a Muggle. I don't really know any Muggle-borns, except Georgia, but her aunt was a witch so it wasn't like she never knew about the wizarding world. But David won't know anything about witches or wizards, so he can't go around chewing Chocolate Frogs and making jokes about the Quibbler.

Please. As if I'd make such an amateur mistake.

David is a very mysterious character. He has to be, if he goes around making dark whispers and sneaking around with witches in alleyways. I was thinking after dinner that I could make him a bit of a larrikin type, seemingly unserious but in reality a dangerous force to be reckoned with. But then I realised that would offend the preposition gods, and I decided not to. Ha, ha. No, I just think it'll be more dramatic if he was mysterious all the way through.

I spent half the summer secretively reading mum's Witch Weekly subscription. Teddy thinks I've developed an interest in sewing and recipes. I encourage this perception, because it hides the fact that I've been writing down the deadline and submission instructions for their short stories. I know I'm about to start the Great Muggle Novel, but on the very slight chance that that doesn't become an international bestseller...

Dammit! Lost track again. David's tall, dark and handsome, definitely. Only I can't describe him like that in the book. W. Quarterly is always saying you've got to show, not tell. I'm not completely sure what that means but it probably has something to do with not making the entire first chapter a description of his toned masculine body.

But it says nothing against long descriptions of the heroine finding him naked in the shower.

Or joining him!

Now I kind of just want to lie here and daydream about David's toned masculine body. He's a secret agent, right? You can't be a secret agent without having gone through rigorous physical training. Well, maybe you can, I'm not a Muggle secret agent so I wouldn't have the faintest idea what their training is like, but since their jobs seem to involve a lot of rolling out of exploding trucks and running across highways with beautiful women in tow I'm guessing a few push-ups wouldn't go astray.

I've just got to work out how he gets involved with a witch.

I like the sound of Hit Witch, actually. Aurors are a bit too commonplace in my family for me to think they're in any way exotic. Okay, so she's a Hit Witch on the hunt for some Dark wizard, I can think that up later, I don't really care, and he's a Muggle secret agent. I'm not entirely sure why a Muggle would care about a Dark wizard. Unless he was attacking Muggles or something.

Yeah, that's right, and the Minister for Magic just told the Muggle Prime Minister or whatever that he was some sort of mass murderer on the loose. Which is technically true - I'm sure there must be some sort of minimum hit count to qualify as a Dark wizard these days, anyway. They can't just go letting anyone into their ranks...

Except why would the Muggle Prime Minister send his own team in? Surely he'd just -

Hang on. This is getting too much to keep track of. I'm fully awake now, thank Merlin, because Georgia isn't up yet so if I go to my desk now I can pretend I've been up for ages.

Unless she's been awake and lying in bed too. In which case it would probably be a good idea to be a bit vague on the timing...

_Georgia sat on the edge of her bed, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "How long have you been up, Vicky?"_

_"Oh, you know, the time just flies by. I really couldn't tell you. I'm a writer, Georgia - I can't work to the demands of a clock..."_

I creep out of bed, trying not to wake Georgia. Muggle Prime Minister. Okay. My writing stuff's already on the table - fairly straight, for once, mostly because Georgia and Betsy were in here with me when I was getting ready and I didn't have time to make it look artistically scattered.

I grab my quill and start writing. It's a lot easier to write when you're just stream-of-consciousness planning. Personally I think it enhances the 'frantically scribbling down the deep and meaningful thoughts just aching to escape from my mind' -

Gah. I'm so tired. Georgia and Betsy kept me up until past midnight last night. First night we were all exhausted, then the night before I was in the Hospital Wing, so last night was the first time the three of us had to really catch up. Even Jan and Angie joined in at one point.

I just can't concentrate on the Muggle Prime Minister. I tried writing down his motivations, and then I realised he didn't even need to be in the story and I stared at my blank piece of parchment for what seemed like -

* * *

><p>I shudder awake, bumping my shoulder against the back of my chair. Dammit. I'm absolutely exhausted. I thought I was awake when I was still warm and comfy in bed but now that I'm out of it I realise I'm nowhere near. But still - want to write. Journal?<p>

Maybe.

I eye my bed dreamily. I do have the invalid excuse, after all. I might as well milk it while it lasts. Madame Nurse's healing potions are pretty tough to deal with, after all...

* * *

><p>"Er, to register as an Animagus one must give a full description of the transformed animal's physical characteristics, Professor."<p>

She sighs, and Georgia elbows me under the desk. "She asked how you could identify one, you numbskull!"

"Is that all?" Professor Richards is asking, and I shake my head furiously.

"Ah, no, Professor, I was just thinking of how to word the answer?" I say hopefully.

"Stop stalling, Miss Weasley," she says tiredly. "This lesson only lasts an hour. I wouldn't mind getting an answer out of you before the end of that time."

"Well, you could look up the characteristics of all registered Animagi," I say quickly, warming to my theme. "You could have a sort of reference manual. Like a bird-watching guide, except, you know, it would cover non-avian Animagi, haha..."

Yes, I actually said haha. Richards stares at me in disbelief. "Are you quite sure you didn't damage your head in your fall?"

"It wasn't that ridiculous an answer!"

"You want to go on a bird-watching tour - for Animagi."

"I didn't say we had to run tours! I just said there should be a guide! So if anyone had to they could - perhaps a field trip?" I smile hopefully.

"We are not running a field trip to gawk at Animagi, even if anyone in this class were able to identify a single Animagi. No, Miss Weasley, I'll give you the answer, since you don't appear to have listened in class for the last three days..."

I nod and smile and put on my best attentive face. Transfiguration passes without another incident, as does Ancient Runes, and then I have a spare period, and no-one said I had to concentrate in those, did they?

Even if Georgia does keep telling me I should study.

* * *

><p>As I walk into the owlery Owl comes flying at me, three envelopes in her claws, and drops them at my feet. "I could have just taken them," I grumble, but I guess Owl hasn't realised dropping is only convenient when there's a nice big solid table right within arm's reach.<p>

One from mum. One from my cousin Rose, actually, which I wasn't expecting:

_Dear Vicky,_

I've really got to start playing a bigger role in their lives. I obviously don't have nearly enough influence over them at the moment.

_Please tell me all about Hogwarts. I was so sad to see you go on the train the other day. But now there is only one more year before I can go as well. I am really looking forward to it but daddy says he doesn't remember anything about Hogwarts and school so I should write and ask you._

_I have been practising my handwriting for school. Mum says I can only start trying out spells when I get my new textbooks but I don't know if I can wait until August. That's more than eleven months away. Mum also says I'm not allowed to write to you and ask you to tell me about spells I can try out, even though you are my favourite cousin easily, right?_

_I hope you are having fun at school. It's very boring at home now that you and Teddy are gone. He only left yesterday to go to work in London. I hope you will write to him and ask him how he is, even though he painted those pictures on you in sunscreen just before you left. Are they gone yet?_

_Love,_  
><em>Rose<em>

Aww, that's sweet. My little manipulative ten-year-old of a cousin. I'll have to write back and tell her I have no intention of going against her mother - she has seven years of doing spells at Hogwarts to look forward to, she should make the most of her childhood while she can...

Next one's from mum and dad:

_Dear son/daughter_

_Hope you are enjoying school and we miss you. Translation: we're thrilled to not have to deal with three teenagers any more, and we're already dreading your return for the Christmas holidays. Isn't boarding school wonderful?_

_Excuse us, we're going to go make out now._

_Mum and dad_

(Or words to that effect.)

I sit down on the bench before opening the one from Teddy. It's disappointingly short. Honestly, I risked life and limb (and Madame Nurse's wrath - I can't decide which is worse) to write him his letter - you'd think he'd manage more than four lines.

_Vicky,_

_Everyone around me is a wonderful person and all politeness, so I'm afraid I can't address you as dear. Haven't left for work left - only going on Friday to move into my new flat. That's right, think of me and weep in your crowded dormitory - by the time you get this I'll have slept my first night in my very own London flat. You're probably turning your nose up at it because it's not a garret in Paris, but I'll leave you with this thought: I don't have to sneak down five floors to grab a midnight snack from the kitchen._

_Your gainfully-employed friend,_  
><em>Tedd<em>y

One paragraph! I'd forgive him if he'd actually started his gainful employment when he wrote this, but he was probably just lounging around at the Burrow eating Grandma Molly's biscuits.

I grab a scrap of parchment from my bag and immediately start scribbling. It's not exactly a romantic writer's cafe, sitting in the middle of the school Owlery surrounded my feathers and owl shit, but sometimes what you have to say can't wait for a huge wooden desk and a leather chair.

_Teddy Lupin,_

_When have I ever expressed a desire to live in a garret in Paris? I have every intention of living in Morocco and going down to the medina every morning to scrawl in my leather-bound notebook. You can only beat pretentiousness with pretentiousness._

_I got another letter from Rose, which was much longer than your pathetic attempt at communication, by the way, and she reminded me of your oh-so-mature sunscreen trick last week. You're lucky my school robes cover everything up, but I'll remind YOU that if it hasn't faded by Saturday I'll get Uncle Charlie to bash your face in. That's right, I have contacts. And don't you forget it._

_School is going well. By which I mean I'm flooded with homework and my stint in the Hospital Wing didn't exactly help. I'm fine, by the way, thanks so much for asking..._

_Sincerely, your almost-cousin, who asks you to please take special note of her name below,_  
><em>VICTOIRE<em>

I call Owl over to me and attach the letter to Teddy to her leg. I'll reply to dad and Rose later.

"Come here, you stupid ball of fluff," I tell her, wriggling my nose into her feathers. I always feel completely ridiculous doing this in front of other people, like I'm putting on some kind of act (honestly, who would act this stupid in public? but my subconscious doesn't seem to care). But on my own? It's _snuffikins_ and_ who's a cute owl_ all around.

Just as I start tickling her feet - everyone says she hates it, but I know the truth - I hear footsteps coming up the Owlery stairs. I lift my eyes, Owl's beak still pressed up against mine, only to see the last person I wanted to talk to today leaning against the door.

"Good to see your Veela powers aren't going to waste," Finnlay drawls. Honestly, I've had enough of him. First the smirking, now the drawling? I can't decide if he's a two-bit villain or a cheap romance hero.

"Definitely the former," I mutter, and he raises his eyebrows. I nod in satisfaction when I realise he's raised both. "Can't raise one eyebrow, can you? Your villain academy tutors must have despaired of you."

He takes a step forward, and I hurriedly set Owl loose. Wouldn't want him intercepting my top-secret communications, after all. "What are you on about now, Weasley?"

"It's Victoire," I correct automatically, then I realise who I'm talking to. "Not to you, of course."

"You know what?" he says, taking a seat on another nearby bench. He summons an owl over, a large grey that seems perfectly suited to his character. I decide not to comment, though - I've already given him more than enough ammunition against me.

"What?" I say, against my will. Not really. It's not like I'm under some sort of talking potion or anything. I know I should probably leave but I'm wondering where this conversation might lead. And, of course, there's the Transfiguration factor: if I leave now, I have to go do homework.

And even Finnlay Thomas is better than homework.

"I think you've gone mad."

"I'm not crazy."

"That's what a crazy person would say."

I throw up my hands. "What are you, five?" Okay, so maybe Finn's company isn't quite as entertaining as I remember it being.

"Sixteen, and seeing you get mad is just as entertaining now as it was six years ago."

"You didn't even know who I was six years ago, don't be ridiculous." I start packing up my things. I wouldn't want him thinking I'm staying here to talk to him or anything.

"Didn't you know?" he says mildly. "All Slytherins make a pact to figure out the names of all the first year Griffindors. I had you all pinned down in the first week."

I laugh derisively (I think. It sort of comes out as more of a splutter.) "Not that hard, is it? They read out the names of every first year in the school the very first night."

"Did you remember all the first years in our year?"

"Of course I did! Angie, Jan, Betsy, Georgia -"

He rolls his eyes, taking a letter out of his bag and briefly reading over it.

That probably would have been the smart thing to do. You know, writing the letter in the comfort of my dormitory. "I didn't go to breakfast, okay?" I say. I'm still standing awkwardly next to him as he fluffs out his parchment and rolls it up carefully. He's not even looking at me and I still feel ridiculous.

I imagine him in a, sitting at a carved wooden desk in a carved wooden chair. Or should it be leather? No, definitely carved and wooden, even expensive leather seems far too comfortable for him...

_Sir Finnlay unrolled the scroll, dismissing his servant with a wave as he examined it. His monocle lay on his desk and he picked it up - this was an important tenant document from his lawyer and it was imperative he make sure it read exactly as he'd intended._

_He flicked the scroll impatiently as he ran his eyes over the impeccable copperplate. "This will do nicely," he said to the man standing in the shadowy corner behind him._

_"Are you quite certain, sir?" the man asked, his deep voice low in the carpeted room. "The murder of three hundred civilians will not go unnoticed by the court."_

_Sir Finnlay pushed his chair out slowly, and turned to face the man as he rose. "You forget," he whispered, pulling his wand from his coat, "that I have an advantage the court knows nothing about..."_

"What does that have to do with anything?" the real-life Finn says impatiently, and I jump. I'm really on edge today and I'm blaming him. I look down again to watch him tie his letter to the grey owl's leg. I didn't get a chance to get a good look at his handwriting, but it didn't seem like copperplate to me. It wasn't a dramatic scrawl, either. Just normal handwriting. Kind of like mine would be, if I hadn't spent half an hour every day of fourth year perfecting it.

"Um," I say profoundly, and with one look at his face I flee from the room. I can just tell he's gearing up for a battle of wits, but I'm feeling decidedly unarmed today. Pity, because I was on fire with Teddy's letter, I think.

It was that Veela comment that threw me off.

Speaking of which: "Just because I've never had a boyfriend doesn't mean I have sex with owls!" I yell suddenly as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

I hear Finn's laughter echoing up in the Owlery, but I'm done with him for today. I stalk off - and this time it is a particularly good stalk, even if by the end of it I am putting on the stomping a bit - and head for the Griffindor common room. Maybe I can focus my rage on sixth year Transfiguration topic.

I'm trying to come up with some mental comebacks (they're supposed to start flowing approximately five seconds after you leave the room, aren't they?) but I can't even remember the flow of the conversation. All I can see in my head is Sir Finnlay's quill, putting down his signature with a flourish.

I was planning on writing some of my post-altercation comebacks down (you know, for future inspiration) but suddenly I have a much better idea.

How can I incorporate Sir Finnlay into my Muggle secret agent novel?

It's going to be difficult, I realise, and I'm probably going to have to change some aspects of his character. Okay, so he won't be some medieval lord with tenants, but he could just as easily be a Muggle businessman with thousands of desperate workers. Muggles get "laid off" all the time, don't they? I asked Grandpa Weasley about it once after reading a Muggle office romance. He explained the basics, but then he asked to see the original source and I could hardly hand him a copy of The Spanish Billionaire's Secretary Bride, could I? Especially with that boardroom-desk page folded over...

Okay, so he's Muggle, except not, because he has to dramatically reveal his wand at some point. Maybe not in a darkened leather-covered library but I'm sure a boardroom would do just fine. I'm not quite sure what they look like - descriptions of Muggle office interiors being mainly limited to desks and elevators, for obvious reasons - but all I really need is a sinister swishing curtain...

Oh, the possibilities!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: JK's.**

* * *

><p><em>Teddy, you adorable fluffy bunny of a monster,<em>

_As you can tell, I am in love. I can't admit it to myself, because that would ruin the entire purpose of unresolved sexual tension, but you don't really count. Technically I shouldn't be revealing it to you either, but we'll just pretend this paragraph doesn't exist and we'll leave the first line as a symbol of my softening heart._

I'm not particularly keen to repeat the incident with the ink bottle.

* * *

><p>"You'd think you'd been drugged or something, the way you've been lazing about all day!"<p>

I open my eyes blearily. I woke up a few minutes ago, really, but I've been refusing to admit it ever since so I don't actually have to get out of bed.

"Bleugh," I say from under my pillow.

"Your sophistication with words continues to astound me," she says drily, throwing a sock at me. "Come on, wake up. You're not missing lunch _and_ breakfast."

"I didn't miss breakfast."

"Unless you decided to sit at the Slytherin table this morning -"

I sit up, rubbing my head. I hate sleeping in the daytime. You never feel refreshed when you wake up. There's this vague murky muddiness in your head that stays with you for the rest of the day, and the worst thing is you can't escape it because you can't get to sleep. "Tickled the pear."

"Whatever, you're going to get a nice healthy lunch today. Don't give me that look."

"Then stop acting like my mother!"

She throws the other sock at me. I look enviously over at the piles already surrounding her bed. It might be a pain in the neck to wade through every morning but it does mean a ready supply of ammunition.

"Come on, Vicky, you haven't been eating properly, that must be why you're falling asleep all the time."

She does have a point - I do like my regular doses of Hogwarts food - but I'm not going to admit it. Actually, she has an amazing point, and I'm absolutely starving, but I like playing the reluctant patient. I'm quite happy to let her drag me to the Great Hall kicking and screaming.

Well, not quite kicking. I could maybe manage a scream or too but to be honest it'd be quite the effort in my current state. A few "but Georgie" moans probably won't go astray.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?" Georgia asks. She's managed to sit down - a feat on its own, given that her bed itself is covered in books and papers - and she's paging through some hideous-looking tome I recognise as the sixth-year Potions textbook.

"Studying," I say vaguely. She looks over at my desk.

"'The Dancing Habits of Rabbits'?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

"What? Where does it say that!"

She points, before returning to the dog-eared page. "It's on your desk. I assumed it was your latest masterpiece."

I grab the offending piece of parchment. "I was freewriting," I mutter, and she laughs.

"Come on, lunch won't last forever," she says, picking up another book and adding it to her bag. "Betsy's waiting for us."

We make our way down to the Great Hall with no further sock-related incidents, thank goodness. They don't leave much of an imprint but when you're so out of it you can't even be bothered raising a hand to fend them off it's hard to shake off that horrible feeling of inevitability. No matter what you do in the next three seconds, which is realistically nothing, that sock will hit you in the face. And your traitorous body will do nothing to stop it.

"Hang on," Georgia whispers as we enter the Great Hall. "Is that Finnlay Thomas Betsy's talking to?"

Why's he talking to Betsy? "I'm not sure what your definition of 'talking to' is, but I don't think it coincides with mine..."

Because their conversation doesn't exactly look friendly. I'm not sure how I feel about this whole thing, and I'm trying really hard not to overanalyse it but it's just so hard to stop myself.

"Good point." Georgia giggles, hand over her mouth to stop it from echoing through the Hall. "I wonder if we'll be interrupting a lovers' tryst."

I'm the one who's supposed to go on about lover's trysts, dammit!

"Whatever. Let's go see." The words probably come out more sharply than I intended, because Georgia gives me an odd look as we weave our way through the tables to where Betsy and Finn are sitting. Or rather, where Betsy is sitting and Finn's leaning over, irritating everyone around her.

I'm not jealous. Am I?

In books, whenever the heroine asks herself that question, it's immediately flung to the side. Sometimes by the timely arrival of the relevant hero, but more often because she shoves it to the back of her mind, to be considered at a time more appropriate to the development of the plot.

But this is real life! How am I supposed to know when I'm supposed to think things?

They're exchanging exactly the same battle of wits Finn and I had in the Owlery.

Or perhaps not. Avian sexual relationships don't appear to be dominating the conversation. I cringe in embarrassment. He must think I'm a total idiot -

Merlin!

Gosh, no, that's not nearly the right level of punch -

Merlin's rusty coat full of codswallop! I think I officially have a crush.

I stare at Finn and Betsy, and watch blankly as Georgia goes up and says, respectively, "get out of my way, you useless prick" and "hey, Betsy". I wish I had the presence of mind for those sort of social niceties.

Finn stands up straight. He's not looking at Betsy or Georgia any more. No, his attention is entirely on me, and I flush with delight. Maybe this has a chance after all...

"If it isn't for the great Victoire Weasley," he says loudly, and it feels like the whole Hall turns around to watch us. "Ready for our next battle of wits? Our last one ended so well, didn't it?"

He pulls out his wand. I stare at him, narrowing my eyes, mostly to seem threatening while I try to work out what's going on. Until he mutters a spell under his breath, one I can't hear, and I dive forward to stop whatever he's about to do -

But it's too late. My own voice, magnified twenty times at least, and I can one-hundred-percent guarantee that there is no humiliation-induced exaggeration in that phrase whatsoever, echoes through the Hall.

"I have sex with owls," I say, and the real me punches Finnlay Thomas in the face.

* * *

><p>"Oh, come off it, it wasn't so bad."<p>

"We all know he made it up, as if anyone would take his word over yours."

I hug my knees to my chest, partly because I've just been humiliated in front of the entire school and partly because I can see myself in the mirror and I make a darn fine image of pity if I do say so myself. "He didn't make it up," I say quietly. I'm perfectly aware of how they're going to take that statement but for the purposes of maximal dramatic impact I'm not too concerned about it.

"Vicky, I'm pretty sure you don't have sex with owls."

"Yeah, because that's phy -"

"Shut up, you lot, of course I don't - do that with owls, it's completely out of context." I raise my not-quite-tear-stained face to theirs, and this time my anger isn't just a show. "But I did say it. And I can't believe he'd do that! In front of everyone in the Hall!"

I might be a bit of an attention-seeker. Teddy would whole-heartedly agree, and tell me how glad he is that I've finally realised my one character flaw.

(It's not, of course. My one character flaw is a tendency to be unrealistic. Which I would be the first to admit is a bit of a cop-out trait, since - at least in my mind - it's more endearing than anything else. But I'm myself! There's absolutely no shame in admitting I'm a self-insert into my own life!)

Anyway, I might like the attention, but having the entire school watching me - and the whole school includes the teachers! And I've been trying to hard to convince them I've gone respectable! - was a bit much, even for me.

Even if I did finally get my detention.

"Yeah, that was bull you getting detention," Georgia agrees, except she didn't grow up in Fleur Weasley's house and she has absolutely no problem with adding a bit more colour to her vocabulary. "He totally provoked you."

Head said it didn't count as provocation if I'd actually said it. So of course I had to admit that I had, and I tried to explain the context, I honestly did, but she was more interested in applying the letter of the law than any mitigating circumstances.

"Guess the romance of detention is about to be ruined for me forever," I say weakly, and Georgia laughs.

Betsy nods her head vigorously. "So worth it, though."

I duck my head in between my knees again. I still can't get the look on his face out of my head.

I'd only just decided to take him on as my crush. And then he'd pulled that stupid stunt.

But all is not lost, right? If I can only put aside my stupid overanalysis, I can make this work as a proper love-hate story. I'll bury my feelings, we can continue as we are, and come Christmas time we'll get stuck under a sprig of mistletoe or he'll give me a dramatic kiss in the middle of the hallway just to shut me up. And in the meantime we'll continue to deny our feelings and every time I so much as see him with Betsy a mysterious and inexplicable feeling I won't be able to identify will rise up in my stomach -

Speaking of which... "Oi, Betsy, you still haven't said what Finn was doing at our table in the first place."

She looks at me, an odd look on her face. "He was asking about you, actually. Said he ran into you at the Owlery."

"Really? What did he say?"

"You're the one on the secret rendezvous, not me," she laughs, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

I do the same. "Told you there was nothing wrong with kitchen direct," I say to Georgia, raising my glass in a toast. "To house-elves, whose greatest joy is to be rewarded with more work to do."

"Don't let your aunt hear that," Betsy cautions, and the three of us burst out laughing.

"Fine," I say. "To house-elves, who are now, always were and always will be the greatest creators of key lime pie the world has ever seen."

"To house-elves," the other two echo, and we each take a swig of pumpkin juice.

"I've always wanted to do that, you know," Georgia says earnestly, leaning forward.

"What - toast house-eleves or punch Finnlay Thomas in the face?"

"Punch anyone in the face, really. Although I see absolutely no reason it can't be Finnlay."

Betsy swirls her pumpkin cup distractedly. "Can I suggest non-violent protest might be in order for you?" she says, addressing the comment to me. "You've been in and out of the Hospital Wing no less than three times. And how many days have we had in this term so far?"

I hang my head. "Four."

* * *

><p><em>In completely unrelated news, I punched Finnlay Thomas in the face today. That's why you're getting two letters from me - in fact, this is the third you're getting, and so far you've only bothered to send one, and I'm not sure that even counts given it was probably written on the back of an envelope.<em>

_Anyway, he drives me crazy. He told everyone at lunch that I - well, never mind, but it was embarrassing, humiliating, dreadful, horrific, I'm sure you have access to your own thesaurus and can substitute all the appropriate words._

_But yes. I can't stand Finnlay. Although you should probably be prepared for your letters to contain a lot more of him for some mysterious reason I refuse to admit to myself just yet._

I stop writing. There's no way I can send this letter to Teddy. He won't just laugh, he'll think I'm being completely ridiculous.

I just don't see why a bit of genre-savvy has to get in the way of perfectly good UST.

I start over, ripping the top of the parchment off so I don't have to waste a whole new page. Beside me, Georgia shifts in her bed, and I pause. The parchment sounds so loud in the darkened dormitory.

It's amazing that, isn't it? I guess it's true what they say about all your other senses being sharper when you're deprived of one of them. And when you're trying desperately not to engage anyone else's senses, too, I suppose. Georgia would probably tie me down and drug me if she knew I was awake past midnight again.

It's not my fault! Weird sleeping patterns tend to breed even weirder ones. I tried to go to sleep earlier, I really did, but all the napping during the day - and all the post-lunch excitement - mean I'm not even close to sleepy. I'd have to be bone-deep, physically exhausted to be able to keep my eyes closed.

So I'm writing under the covers, like my thirteen-year-old self with her romance novels. It does have a certain amount of drama, doesn't it? Writing under the cover of darkness, aware that any wrong move could lead to ultimate destruction -

Or Georgia's nagging, one of the two.

_Teddy,_

That's safe enough.

Okay, I've got to write this properly. Just because in my heart of hearts I know I don't completely hate Finnlay doesn't mean I have to admit it to everyone else. I owe the outside world a proper story, at least.

And at the back of my mind I know that if I keep telling everyone the same thing, maybe I'll start to believe it.

I've just got to put in some extra-special effort.

_Today I punched Finnlay Thomas in the face. Finnlay -_

Should I call him Finnlay? I'm trying to remember if I've ever mentioned him before in my letters, but I don't really see why I would have. He wasn't of any particular interest before now. Just your everyday Slytherin villain. Maybe I should call him Thomas for now, then slowly start calling him Finnlay, to show how my feelings are changing. Yes, that sounds good.

I carefully blot out the 'Finnlay' and keep writing.

_Thomas insulted me in front of everyone at lunch, long story, but let's just say he completely deserved it, the arrogant bastard. I don't know where he thinks he gets off. He's always hanging around and just generally being a prick to everyone he sees. Merlin, I'm glad he got detention, even if it meant I did as well. It's completely unfair, isn't it? He's the one who provoked me, after all! Argh! He makes my blood boil!_

This is surprisingly easy to write. I continue in this vein for quite some time, making sure to slip in vague references to how he riles my various passions. Not in so many words, of course, I'm not writing a bodice-ripper, but just enough to make sure he gets the point.

_And of course, my point from my earlier letter still stands, and if you write me anything less than a foot I'll throttle you. Yes, I'm deliberately setting the bar much higher than you could ever hope to achieve, in the probably vain hope that your next letter will extend to a grand two paragraphs. And no using work as an excuse! I'm sure you can find some secluded glade somewhere to write without being seen. Rest your weary head against a unicorn or something._

Now I'm thinking about his virginal status, which is an interesting line of thought, but not one I particularly want to follow given it's Teddy. Now if it were Finnlay, on the other hand...

_Sincerely, your now slightly calmed cousin,_  
><em>Victoire<em>

I pass my wand over it, making sure there aren't any mistakes - and more importantly, that the letter has exactly the right tone - before deciding it will do.

"_Nox_," I whisper, and suddenly I'm surrounded by darkness. No - shrouded by darkness, and for once it doesn't seem like a cliche because I can feel it crushing, bearing down on me like -

Right. Like a blanket. I fumble for my bedside table in the dark and carefully place Teddy's letter there, before turning back to my bed. My warm, comfortable bed...

* * *

><p><em>"I have sex with owls," echoed Victoire's voice through his wand, booming through the Great Hall.<em>

_Finnlay laughed - but then he caught the expression on her face. He'd thought this would be funny, amusing, that she'd love the attention - but as her face twisted into the agony of humiliation, his heart clenched in his chest. This had gone too far - he'd never be able to have her now..._

_But he'd never been able to have her, had he? He looked away bitterly, away from the Griffindor table and all it stood for. Victoire was beautiful, charming, funny - why would someone like her so much as look at someone like him?_

Mmm. I wriggle deeper into my pillow, the angst is so delightful. I'll have to have some of it in my Muggle story. I guess there's the angst of "I'm a Muggle and she'll never love me" - but is it enough?

Maybe I can have Sir Finnlay fall for me as well?

I let out a sigh. No, Teddy was right about my last story. I can't have _everyone_ madly in love with me.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated, they are slightly begged for! I'm (finally) trying to mould my old half-finished draft for this into something worth reading and knowing anyone is actually reading this makes it easier. But either way, have a nice day, it's all good, thanks for reading :)<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: JK's.**

* * *

><p>There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up and I'm absolutely dying to go. You miss school when you're lazing around all summer and there's nothing else to do except throw sand at Teddy, but now that we're back I'm remembering exactly why every student who has ever existed complains about it.<p>

Rose says she won't. She's always absolutely appalled when we bash school in front of her. But then again, with Aunt Hermione for a mother...

I'm hoping we don't get much homework that weekend. It's not this one, but the week after, so the teachers have plenty of time to set all the essays they like between now and then - as long as none of them are due the Monday afterwards.

Because that's the weekend I've officially decided to write the first word of my secret agent story.

Gah! I can't keep saying "my Muggle secret agent story". I need a title. A catchy title. One that leaps off the shelves, and preferably is shorter than five words so I actually save time when referring to it.

I could just call it _David_. That's punchy. Except the story really has nothing to do with David, except for the obvious eye-candy factor. I'm looking forward to seeing the illustrations in this thing.

I could go for the romance title. _The Nationality Alpha-Male's Adjective Heroine_. But this isn't just some cheap throwaway. This is Serious Literature. And plus, that's way too long. Especially if you count Alpha-Male as two words.

Okay, serious literature. They always have really vague, philosophical titles like _Sob the Rain_ and_ Terror, Underwater_. Come to think of it, I don't mind the second one. I'm not sure what underwater has to do with it (although when has that ever stopped anyone?) but I quite like the Noun Comma Adjective form. Let's see -_ Agent, Seductive_. No! Must refrain from pidgeonholing bestseller as cheap romance!

_Agent, Provocative. Agent, Danger._ Now it just sounds like a children's book for ten-year-olds. About some kid on a bike who solves the village mysteries.

Maybe David used to read _Agent, Danger_ books. In his broken home, they were the only way to escape from his angry father and drunken mother. Awesome, instant background...

Concentrate. Hogsmeade.

I kind of want to go alone to Hogsmeade (and I promise I'm not just saying that so I'm free to go with Finnlay, who shall also remain conveniently dateless). No, I'm imagining myself in the Three Broomsticks - no! the Hog's Head, surrounded by mysterious characters in hoods and swishing cloaks and drinking Firewhiskey from dirty glasses. I'm not entirely sure what sort of people frequent that place but anyone who's seen the outside can take a pretty good guess as to their characters...

_She sits alone, her table the only one not crowded and bawdy. He doesn't notice her at first, her disguise is so complete, but he can't fail to identify the scrawling cursive he knows so well._

_"Victoire," he murmurs, and he hears the catch in her throat as she looks up at him in fear - but why, he knows not. "Victoire, you've got broccoli* in your teeth."_

Teddy Lupin! Get out of my daydreams, dammit! And that was a perfectly good scene, too!

I haven't heard from Teddy all weekend. You'd think that'd be the perfect time to write, wouldn't you, but apparently not for Teddy.

Although in his defence, he does have three letters to reply to.

I ease out of bed, careful not to wake the others. So far Georgia hasn't end up sticking with her six in the morning study vow, so I'm free to sleep in for another hour at least. But today I don't particularly feel like sleeping. I'm glad, to be honest. I was starting to wonder if the early-riser thing really had just been a pretension.

It's only quarter-to-six or so now, which isn't unreasonably early. The sun's up, for one thing, so no-one can accuse me of deliberately waking myself up just to show off...

I wonder if breakfast would be ready this early? It's usually between seven or eight or so, isn't it? Normally I wait for Betsy and Georgia, even if I do get up early, but I think today I'm in the mood for some alone time. Maybe I'll take a long walk around the castle - take the long way to breakfast. Hopefully it'll be ready by the time I get down there.

Turns out I'm slightly more impatient than I thought, and that in combination with the Hogwarts castle staircases conspiring against me means I arrive at the Great Hall at five to six. That's probably the quickest run I've had in my entire Hogwarts career!

I peek into the Hall, but the tables are bare of food. There aren't any other students, but there's one teacher I don't recognise sitting at the head table, munching on a sandwich. He can't be that hungry, surely?

I'll just sit down and jot down some notes or something. You see, not starting official writing until the Hogsmeade weekend was a deliberate choice (and has absolutely nothing to do with procrastination, so that little voice in my head can shut right up). I need time to dwell on it, get to know the characters and their motivations.

Even if I did fail completely with the Muggle Prime Minister.

Okay, so I'm not that great at planning out novels. The last time I tried Teddy (who else, dammit?) found me on the beach, and pointed out (with rather annoying foresight) that trying to lay out scene cards in the wind was a recipe for disaster.

The teacher coughs, and the sound echoes through the empty Hall, disrupting my daydream. Oh, whatever. With a sudden whoosh, breakfast plates appear on all the tables, and I realise it must be six o'clock. Screw writing, I realise suddenly. I'm starving!

Before long a few other students have arrived for breakfast, but I'm too busy gobbling down my gourmet scrambled eggs to notice. I am quite aware that even if I don't have broccoli in my teeth, I am bringing dream Teddy's prediction to life with the weird green leaves floating around in the eggs...

But whatever. There's no-one but a couple of Slytherins and a Ravenclaw to notice - and let's be honest, if you're up this early and sitting alone at your table you probably don't get out much in society. I bet they haven't even noticed my existence.

Then of course, just as I finish breakfast and realise I can't possibly eat another bite, everyone of any importance (read: Betsy and Georgia) arrive on the scene.

"You're up early," Georgia comments as she takes a seat opposite me.

"Yeah, I'm a writer, we do things like that," I say, looking dreamily up to the sky. Not really. Actually I just nod, and mutter good morning to Betsy. If I sound tired and moody, it's nothing compared to what they look like. I'm positively chirpy compared to Betsy's scowl.

Georgia starts going on about her boyfriend, but she's interrupted by the owl post (for which I am deeply thankful. No decent human being should have to endure more than five minutes of conversation a week regarding Jack Thomson. And she's already exceeded that quota by half).

Owl drops not one but three letters in my lap. Betsy has a letter from her mum; Georgia's alone and friendless as usual. Not really - she seems to be enjoying the scrambled eggs just as much as I did, only I suspect she's much better at making sure nothing gets stuck between her teeth. I try to clean mine inconspicuously - but if you've ever tried to pull leaves from between your teeth using only your tongue, you'll know that the horrific half smile on your face is very quickly noticed by everyone around you.

Ooh, Teddy's replied! And for once it's nice and long, so after skimming it for any important information - no-one's died, and he hasn't run off to Majorca with his bisexual Spanish lover - I turn to the other two.

"Hey, look at this," I say after skimming the first. The other two look up (and I realise rather uncomfortably that Georgia's scanning my teeth). "The new jewel inks have arrived in Flourish and Blotts."

"Fat lot of good that does you." Betsy spears her sausage with great relish, and I laugh.

"It's okay, I'll ask them to forward them to the post office in Hogsmeade. Delivery shouldn't take more than a couple days from London, right?"

"Didn't you just buy new inks?"

"Yes, but these are the new colours range," I explain patiently. Georgia's never been one to appreciate my obsession with inks. You should see her notebooks - beautifully kept, of course, but everything (including notes between friends, which you'd think at least would deserve a different colour) in exactly the same shade of navy blue. "Don't you get sick of writing in the same colour all the time?"

"Why would anyone want to write in aquamarine?"

"It depends on the parchment, your mood, the - oh, never mind." I turn to the last sheet of paper, and my heart sinks as I recognise Head's handwriting. "Got my detention," I say miserably, all thought of happiness utterly destroyed.

"Where?" Betsy peers over my shoulder.

Georgia smirks at me. "Tonight? You'll miss Dom's Quidditch tryouts."

"Oh, my heart just shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. I don't know how I'll survive the agony..."

Georgia swats me. "Go on, then."

"Half past eight tonight at Greenhouse Two. Damn, I'm crap at Herbology. I'll probably get detention again tomorrow night for burning down the greenhouse."

"You'll probably just be cleaning up Mandrake -"

But Georgia doesn't finish her sentence - because Betsy suddenly gets up from the table and leaves, her bag bouncing against her hip as she strides away.

I exchange a look with Georgia.

I'm still worried about Betsy at twenty past eight that night, as I slowly let myself out the front doors of the castle. I've left Georgia in the common room, but neither of us have seen Betsy since the incident in the Great Hall this morning.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. Betsy's always been the laid-back, casual one of us. I'm the pretentious daydreamer (see? I fully admit it. Teddy can eat me - oh, never mind, why does Teddy have to come into everything?). And Georgia's the - well, I'm not sure what Georgia is. The suddenly rather academic party girl? This would be so much easier if she hadn't decided to hit the books this year...

Surely if you were going to take bets on who would storm off from the breakfast table you'd back one of the latter two.

It's dark. I'm not sure why I said that, because obviously if it's eight-thirty at night the sun's not going to be out. But it's dark in a spooky sort of way, too, not just in the mundance absence of light sense. I've never had detention outside before. I've never had detention anywhere before, if you're going to be picky about it, but I must admit this is a rather terrifying first go.

I've never been outside of the castle after dark on my own. That's the problem.

Lots of description about the mood here. Maybe even a fantasy scene.

But there's nothing I can do about it, so I'm just going to make my way to the greenhouses -

"Decided to go on a midnight stroll, Weasley?"

I jump, and it's only by sheer force of will (and the possible seizure of my vocal cords) that I don't actually scream.

"Or should that be Victoire?" Finnlay continues.

Oh, this is just typical. The back of my mind is telling me that it's actually perfectly logical that Finnlay would be on the same detention as me, considering we were involved in the same incident - on the same day, even! aren't the fates mysterious in their ways? - but another part of me is reminding me that this is totally a setup for a midnight kiss. Head will abandon us, two teenagers alone in the lonely greenhouses, and the tension between us will grow_ so thick you could cut it with a knife_, whatever that means -

"Cat got your tongue? It can't have been your owl, I doubt that thing's bigger than your front tooth. Unless you've swallowed it by accident, and that's why you can't talk back to me?"

"Oh, shut up, Finnlay."

"So we are on first name terms, then!"

Oh, this is going exactly as it should. I can't wait to tell Betsy and Georgia -

_"He kissed you?"_

_Georgia sat further up in bed, grasping her hot chocolate as she stared wide-eyed at my news. "What did you do?"_

_"What do you think I did? I pushed him away." But in my heart I knew I hadn't wanted to. I could still see him now, standing over the Mandrake pots like -_

I can't help it. I let out a giggle at the thought of Finnlay Thomas seducing me over the Mandrake pots. I wonder if any of those little bubs are voyeurs in the making...

Wait, he probably thinks I was laughing at him. I glance over at him, but his face looks blank. The only light is the light from his wand, and I light mine quickly as well. Okay, so it hadn't occurred to me that I didn't have to walk to the greenhouses in the dark...

"Detention?" I ask (grunt?). I want him to see my blossoming feelings for him, but now is definitely not the time. He needs a bit of *she'll never love me* before the final climax*...

He nods. Before long we've arrived at Greenhouse Two, and Head's waiting for us with Professor Piper.

"You'll be sorting out this season's new seedlings," Head says sternly. "Professor Piper will remain here to supervise. She'll give you the full..."

Her voice drifts off as I realise what she's just said. Supervise? This is like no detention scene I've ever read. Whatever happened to two teenagers alone in the dark?

And then Head walks off, and we're left alone with Professor Piper to sort out whatever the heck we're meant to be sorting. I'm fairly certain there's a spell that could do this in seconds, but hey? Why bother with spells when you can get two _supervised_ teenagers to do it for you?

I don't know what I'm supposed to tell Betsy and Georgia now.

_"So you sat there sorting out seeds for two hours."_

_"Yes."_

_"No snogging."_

_"That's right."_

_"No passionate declarations of love."_

_"Absolutely none."_

_"...!"*_

We're shown into the greenhouse, where Professor Piper does indeed give us the full instructions, not that I listen to her any more than I did to Head.

The greenhouse seems creepier in the dark. Plants are creepy at the best of times, but magical ones have a habit of sending their tendrils crawling over the windows, whispering under their breath, shooting out pods without warning just when you turn your back -

I shudder. I'm starting to appreciate the punishment value of detention.

Surprisingly, Professor Piper leaves us at that point, but only to go to her office behind the greenhouse. Greenhouse designers having an inordinate fondness for glass, this leaves us with absolutely no privacy whatsoever, so there definitely aren't going to be any impassioned moments in the dirt. But it does leave us free to talk.

Which is kind of awkward, because I don't really have anything to say to Finnlay, and now I don't even have the excuse of having a teacher listening in.

We sort in silence for a while. It's not hard, just mindnumbingly boring. Which I suppose is the point. It's not supposed to be in any way intellectually challenging, else all the smart kids would deliberately end up here and Hogwarts would gain a reputation for delinquency.

Which, given the extremely lax security and number of students who sneak out of bounds at night, is probably well deserved.

Uncle Harry prefers to turn a blind eye to all of this. He's a bit naive, though, Uncle Harry. I feel a bit condescending saying it about the saviour of the wizarding world, but let's be honest - when most sixteen-year-old wizards sneak out of school after hours they're not doing it to fight off Death Eaters, are they?

"You're starting to make a habit out of causing scenes at breakfast, aren't you?" Finnlay says suddenly. I look over at him, but his eyes are firmly fixed on the pods in front of him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He laughs, dropping the seedling he's holding so he can start counting on his fingers. "First, you burst in on crutches on practically the first day of school, knowing perfectly well you'd be the centre of attention at the Griffindor table -"

"It's not my fault I -"

"Have the clumsiness of Tom's pet troll? Next, you've got that delightful owl incident -"

This time I reach over to slap him, but he ducks out of the way. I send a malevolent glare down Professor Piper's way. If she weren't here I'd be free to chase him all over the dungeon. And this time I have no intention of turning it into a passionate snogging session. Oh, no, he's going down.

"This is so easy, you know that?" His voice is so damn conversational. Like we're not discussing the most humiliating incident in my entire year. "I almost don't want to continue, your reactions are so predictable, but I have to if I have any hope of getting any of the good gossip. Why don't you tell me about the most recent incident yourself?"

Predictable? He's the one taunting me like a villain in the bloody opera! Or maybe a bad stage play. Not being particularly fluent in Italian (or French, le sigh) I wouldn't have the faintest idea what they go on about in operas. I'll have to ask mum one day.

I'm honestly not sure what he's on about this time. I didn't cause a scene this morning, did I?

"You're talking about Betsy, aren't you? That wasn't an _incident_..."

"Mhmm. Storming off halfway through your sentence isn't dramatic in the slightest."

He was watching us? I suppose he could have heard it from someone else, but I didn't think the second-years right next to us had noticed, let alone someone on the other side of the Great Hall...

"I wasn't halfway through a sentence, and she just decided to go to class early. You're being ridiculous."

"I'd never storm off halfway through one of your sentences."

I snort. "And miss a chance to deliver one of your oh so cutting comebacks after I finish it? Perish the thought."

Wait. That was interesting. Definitely secret thrill material. I look over at him to see if he's realised what he just said, but he isn't paying attention.

"You've only got so many friends, you know. If I were you I wouldn't go throwing them away so easily."

Okay, potential secret thrills can wait. Does Finnlay know something about Betsy? I open my mouth to ask, but we're interrupted by the squeaking of the greenhouse door. This time I actually do shiver, my shoulders tense up - before I realise it's only Professor Piper, come to check up on us.

She can see us perfectly well from her office, I'm not sure why she's bothering.

"Have either of you finished collecting the bottlewings?" she asks distractedly, and I look at Finnlay expectantly before realising with a start that he's doing the same to me.

What the heck are bottlewings? I look frantically through my neatly sorted boxes, but none of them seem to even vaguely resemble what I think I should be looking for. I glance over at Finnlay in desperation - there's no way I'm going to admit how crap I am at Herbology - but to my surprise he's moved his hand to the far right corner of his box.

He has absolutely no reason to help me, but I decide I don't really have a choice. Carefully, I tip out that section and hand it wordlessly to Professor Piper. She takes it with a brief thanks, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

She's gone. "What did you do that for?" I hiss.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Oh, please. As if you'd give up the opportunity to have me in your debt."

He looks over at me with interest. "Debt, huh?"

You mean he hadn't been about to force me to streak through the Great Hall at breakfast tomorrow morning? I can't decide whether to be relieved he doesn't have an ulterior motive or kick myself for giving him the idea. Okay, must not verbalise streaking dare. I wouldn't put it past him.

Not that any bloke in the history of teenage fiction has ever suggested something as inane as streaking. It's always a kiss. Or seven minutes in heaven. Or they both lose the dare and have to spend the rest of the week tied together to they can realise how much they can't live without each other. Wait, wrong story -

"I want you to go to Hogsmeade with me."


	7. Chapter 7

I can literally feel my eyes widen. He wants to go to Hogsmeade with me? In actual, real life, someone wants to go out with me?

He snorts. "Don't give me that look. Trust me, I have no desire to go on a date with you. I just need you to walk down the main street with me a few times."

He spits out the word date so ferociously I know there's something behind it. I haven't read all that teenage fiction for nothing. This is how they always start. Boy meets girl, girl hates boy, boy engineers secret plan to get to spend more time with her while knowing with maximum angst that she'll never love him -

And I'm terrified. It's one thing reading the book. But Finnlay's actually just asked me out. Or as good as, anyway, and he hasn't given me any time to come around to the idea. I'm still genuinely on the hate side of the love-hate spectrum! This is not going according to plan!

I turn away from him. "I don't see why I need to go to Hogsmeade with you if all you want is a walk." And besides, all he did was move his hand. What was the worst that would have happened? Professor Piper would have sighed in frustration at my complete lack of a green thumb, and that would have been the end of it. He certainly doesn't deserve a whole day of my time.

"Whatever, go to Hogsmeade on your own, I don't care. Just -"

He hesitates, and I'm so fascinated that I can't bear to prod him. I'm already taking notes for my Sir Finnlay character. (I've got to stop calling him that, don't I? I highly doubt they have knights in the twenty-first century. Especially in Muggle culture. They probably got rid of knighthoods five hundred years ago.)

_"Just -" He turned away, his cloak slipping down over his shoulders, but he didn't seem to notice. "I don't expect you to care. But my mother will be watching. I need her to see me with a woman before she -"_

_She stared at him, wide-eyed at the revelation. He had a dying mother? Suddenly a lot of things about him fell into place. She reached out, but he pushed her hand away._

_"Don't give me that look," he said sharply, his eyes boring into hers. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me. Don't you dare think you understand me. You think I'm evil now? She's the only thing keeping me sane right now. So when she dies -"_

I shiver, loving the way this story seems to be falling into place almost effortlessly. Oh, I can't wait to start writing. I'm desperately looking forward to the Hogsmeade weekend now.

Maybe I should steal some of that dialogue and give it to David. He's got dead parents, doesn't he? Okay, so he doesn't have to give the evil part of it -

I click my fingers. Maybe he does think he's evil. Maybe that's part of his mysterious past. And let's be honest, why would Sir Finnlay be confiding in my witch character anyway -

I look up, only to find Finnlay staring at me, a mixture of confusion and amusement on his face. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I'm -" Okay, so maybe I drifted off for a bit there. It's not my fault he's such an exciting character.

The real Finnlay continues, the odd expression from before having disappeared completely. "I don't care how long this stupid walk is. As long as it's in public."

He wants to be seen with me! "Just one walk?" I say cautiously. I'm not going to betray my overflowing feelings to him, obviously. And there's a very small part of me that's wondering what's going on. I don't want this to be moving this fast. I need time to - to -

I don't know. But how am I supposed to know if I'm madly in love with him if I've barely spent ten minutes actually talking to him?

It's alright, I say to myself a little uneasily. I'm not supposed to be in love with him at this point in the story. That's the whole point of the walk. So I can spend more time with him and realise my passions for him are very different to the ones I'd imagined...

"Just one walk. Up and down the street a couple of times. Whatever you want. As long as it's in Hogsmeade."

If nothing else, I can spend more time sketching out Sir Finnlay... "Fine. I'll be in the Three Broomsticks. We can walk after lunch, I've got stuff to do in the morning."

"I'll be there at one. Don't waste my time."

* * *

><p>Breakfast. Again. I go for fruit this morning, deciding that on the off chance Finnlay's right and breakfast has decided to curse me, it's because of all the scrambled eggs and bacon I've been eating.<p>

Because today is Saturday, and there's no way I want any 'incidents' interrupting my Hogsmeade weekend.

Haven't heard from Teddy since his last letter. It was acceptably long, but since most of it was rambling on about his job I'm not sure it counts as interesting gossip. I tell him all about my love life, don't I? I don't see why he can't do the same.

That said I doubt there's too many eligible females out in the woods in the middle of Wales.

I'm quite proud of Teddy, actually. I told him that the first time he told us he was going to be a gamekeeper. The rest of the family was appalled, of course - he gets five NEWTS and all of them Outstandings, and he wants to be a gamekeeper?

But that's what he wanted, and that's what he's wanted since the first day of third year when Hagrid introduced them all to Skrewts. And since I am all about following your dreams (and since I realise that I'm not likely to take my own advice, and will end up writing the community pages in whatever local paper I settle for) I took it upon myself to congratulate him.

And he seemed quite pleased about it too, which was nice. Teddy's alright, when he's not painting rude words on my back in sunscreen lotion. I shudder to think of how he's dealing with responsible full-time employment.

"Ready for the big day?" Georgia takes a seat next to me, her satchel already packed with healthy snacks for the day. That's one thing she hasn't changed this year - her obsession with good health and not eating junk food. Although, as she's demonstrating right now, she always makes an exception for bacon.

Because, seriously, who wouldn't.

"Have you told Betsy yet?"

I look away. I told Georgia about it immediately, of course - and in normal circumstances I would have told Betsy, I honestly would have!

But I can't stop thinking that all her recent moodiness has something to do with Finnlay.

And given Betsy's attitude to Finnlay, is it really that surprisingly that I wouldn't want to tell her I'm seeing him today?

Shrugging, I heap some sausage onto my plate. Hogsmeade days are hard work. They can't be conquered only with fruit. "I figured I'd just say it was an accident."

"And when she finds out?" Georgia hisses from across the table.

"Finds out what?"

Betsy takes her place next to Georgia, and I try desperately to come up with an excuse.

"Finds out what?" she says again, and I'm stalling, and Georgia's giving me significant looks and raising her eyebrows at me from across the table. "Are you meeting someone today?"

I look up, startled, but Betsy's calmly eating breakfast, no sign of the weirdness of the last few days.

"Yes, you are, aren't you?" Georgia says significantly.

I wince. And just when Betsy seemed to be coming around, too! They're looking at me now, I have to say something -

And then the owls arrive, and I look desperately around for Owl in the flurry of feathers above us. Betsy gets the Daily Prophet, so if all else fails I can fake an interest in whatever the headline is today - Surrey man admits to rest of headline, you are my biggest fascination right now - but then Owl drops a letter in my lap, and I breathe a sigh of relief, refusing to look at Georgia.

I tear open the letter. It's from Teddy.

_Victoire,_

_Yeah, you read that right. Don't get too excited. I'm only trying to get your hopes up so I can call you Vicky today in person with impunity. Three Broomsticks at ten?_

_T.L._

"Teddy," I say quickly, before shoving a mouthful of sausage in my mouth to avoid any awkward questions. "I'm seeing Teddy at the Three Broomsticks," I mumble. I can tell Georgia's glaring at me but right now I don't really care. One, it's a welcome excuse to not set Betsy off...

And two, I really have missed Teddy. I know it's only been a few weeks, but I saw him every day of the holidays. He's one of those people who's just... always there. Even if he is horribly embarrassing and tells your whole family you've taken up ink-sniffing.

"When'd you plan that?" Betsy asks. "You hadn't mentioned anything before now."

Well, you've sort of been avoiding me for the last week. But thanks for the thought.

"Oh, not too long ago," I say vaguely. "He wasn't sure if he could make it before now. In fact," I say quickly, pulling out the letter from my bag, "I just got the confirmation now. He wants us to meet him there at ten. I guess we'd better hurry."

Georgia takes the letter from me slowly. I can tell she thought I was making this up, but she reads the letter without comment. Finally she looks up at me. "I don't see anything in here about 'us'."

"Who else would he mean? Tom Spencer?"

She frowns. "Don't you think he just wants to see - well, you?"

She does have a point. Teddy doesn't really know Georgia and Betsy. I mean, obviously he's met them. Multiple times. They're my friends, after all, they've even come over to Shell Cottage a few times. But really he's only friends with me...

I shrug. "I guess. But you're welcome to come along anyway, I'm sure Teddy won't mind. He likes you guys."

Betsy puts down her fork. "I think what Georgia's trying to say is maybe, just maybe, your Teddy wants a little alone time with you."

Teddy? Alone time? I laugh out loud. "Teddy's just a friend," I tell them, and it's the truth. I know what you're thinking. 'Just a friend' is just as much a stereotype as loving enemies - but in Teddy's case...

Look, I meant what I said about underwear on the washing line. That's the thing about guys who could practically be your brother. They know every embarrassing secret you have, from all the times you wet your bed when you were three (dad, the traitor, actually kept a record. He SAYS it was to make Teddy feel better about his own night-time accidents. But I just know he's saving it for my twenty-first) to the crush you had on your fourth year Potions teacher (which may or may not have inspired my brief spot of attention seeking in fifth).

You can't have a romance with someone you've seen naked in the bath more times than you can count (even if all seven occasions did occur when we were eight years old. Okay, so I kept count). It's just - what's the point? You've known each other your whole lives, there's nothing new to discover, no excitement or _frissons_ or shivers down your spine when you catch his eye across a crowded room...

And that drink he just solicitously poured you is just Uncle George's latest test product, and your face breaks out in pimples as you cautiously take a sniff.

I just - the best friend thing is not believable in the slightest. Maybe for other people. But not for me.

"Does he know that?" Georgia asks quietly.

"What is with you lot? It's just a note. Like, one line. Look. Three Broomsticks at ten. I never thought I of all people would be the one to say this, but you're reading way too much into this."

They look back at me, unblinking, like little zombie children.

I pull my backpack up from under the seat, shaking my head. "Fine. I'll go alone. And absolutely nothing will happen." Wait, I'm tempting fate. I suppose there's always the off-chance that Teddy's my love-interest-in-denial, and saying things like that is a sure way to end up in an awkward situation. "Or maybe it will. Who knows what'll happen without your supervision?"

Betsy laughs. "It's a wild place, that Three Broomsticks."

I wave goodbye good-naturedly, because I'm, well, good-natured like that. Only Georgia doesn't say anything - except with her eyes, which are throwing daggers into my burning soul.

And I should really stop mixing my metaphors.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: More updates this weekend, yay for the two people actually reading this. More importantly, fixing up the last few chapters, which have featured some of the sloppiest editing I've ever done in my life. You should pull me up on this. Yell at me in a review or something ;)**


	8. Chapter 8

"Vicky!"

The Three Broomsticks is busy. Really busy. It's the first Hogsmeade visit of the year, and all the third-years are crowding around the shops, as though they haven't all been here for the last twenty years. So of course every other student has settled in the Three Broomsticks, hoping to avoid the crowds in the rest of the village.

Which has sort of backfired on them.

But hey - it's a nice place. I breathe in deeply as someone walks by with two glasses of butterbeer, trying not to look like a creep. But there's nothing quite like the smell of warm butterbeer and the warm crush of a friendly crowd. Who needs cloaks and daggers in the Hogs' Head when you can have this?

I still can't see Teddy, but he must be in here. Only Teddy would shout my name in that obnoxious tone of voice. And it's not even my name, anyway.

Someone grabs my sleeve from behind me. I turn around, only to see Teddy standing in front of me, the remnants of a handlebar moustache fading from his face.

"Enjoy sniffing random strangers' butterbeer?" he laughs, gesturing to a seat he's saved near the corner.

"That was you? And shut up, it's been a while since I've had it, that's all."

"Come off it, we had it all holidays."

"No we didn't!"

He sits down next to me, and the noise of the rest of the crowd fades to an indistinct murmur as he pushes his chair in closer. "There were whole crates of it in the cupboards."

"We're not supposed to drink dad's stuff," I say stiffly.

He raises his eyebrows. "Really? Dom didn't seem to think so..."

"Little brat..."

Shrugging, he takes a sip of his own drink. "Butterbeer's barely alcoholic. At least she wasn't sneaking Firewhiskey."

Hey, it's a smart plot. I might copy it with my own kids one day. Lay down a blanket ban on lime cordial. They can indulge their rebellious sides on my terms.

"So, how's school been?"

He leans back, and I have to do the same so he'll have a chance of hearing me in this crowd. Except somehow he manages to do it without having to rock back on his chair. I look around furtively for the barmaid - she's new this year, apparently, and I'm not too sure what her policy on chair-rocking is.

"Mad," I tell him with a sigh. "Got three essays due Monday, despite my prayers to every known deity, saint and famous witch or wizard I could find -"

"In the library, huh?"

"You count my library of Chocolate Frog cards, right?"

He laughs. "What for?"

"Transfig, of course." I give him an aggrieved scowl, realising for the first time in my writing life what that means on a deep level. "Charms, but it's short, thank Merlin, and Care of Magical Creatures."

He leans forward again. I should have know that would interest him. "What's the topic?" he asks. So predictable. I reach over and pat him on the hand -

And let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when nothing happens. Okay, so maybe I was trying to see if there was any truth to what Georgia and Betsy had suggested. I mean, it'd be really awkward if there was, since I don't - shudder - can't like him in that way, but a part of me was still curious.

But his eyes don't darken, he doesn't let out a muffled curse and snatch his hand away as though it were on fire, and he certainly doesn't stare into the distance and tell me in a dull voice how he knows we can never be together.

Wonderful, predictable Teddy.

"Moroccan pixies. This one's on their mating habits, which don't seem all that interesting to me, but I guess I'm going to have find something to fill up two feet of parchment..."

He snorts, and has to take another sip of butterbeer to cover it up.

Yeah, so not romance hero material.

"They have three genders. How could that not be interesting?"

"Really?" I frown. "I haven't come across that in my research yet..."

"I'm not surprised if all you're reading is the textbook."

Well, that and Aunt Luna's annotated copy of the revised Fantastic Beasts. Everyone seems to think it's really helpful, knowing one of the authors, but to be honest most of her comments revolve around how to spot them in your cereal and whether or not you're being haunted by one of their ancestors.

Although I am surprised she didn't include something like that. It seems like the sort of thing she'd say.

"The third one was only discovered quite recently. I was reading about it in one of the journals the Commission gets in the office. Apparently it's quite similar to the female form, but it's unable to reproduce."

"What's the point of that?"

He shrugs. "No-one's sure yet. But it might have something to do with assisting the other two genders to conceive, like we've seen in the -"

"Teddy! There are minors about!"

He raises his glass, winking. "And how do you think those minors got here in the first place?"

"Oh, shut up, Teddy. How's work, then? There I was thinking you were working hard, but all this time you've probably been skulking in the loo reading magazines, haven't you?"

"Given that our bathroom is the one used by the public, and hasn't been cleaned since I started work there - yeah, no."

"Should have taken that Ministry job, then."

His eyes do darken, then, and I look back quite intensely because I've never seen such a process occurring. I always imagined it was just a figure of speech, a nice pattern of words, but -

"Don't tell me you've gone to the dark side, too," he says lightly, but I can see that I've worried him.

"Oh, Teddy, I know you did the right thing, I'm just teasing. Come on, tell me all about it."

"You mean that foot-long essay I sent you wasn't enough for you?"

I pause, wondering how to say this. I catch a glimpse of the barmaid at the counter, wiping down the bar, and I make my decision. "Look at her," I say to Teddy, pulling his arm so he'll turn in the right direction. "How would you describe her job?"

"Stuck inside a pub all day long," he says immediately, and I laugh.

"Ignoring your own prejudices."

"Well, she obviously seems to like wiping down tables, if that look on her face is anything to go by. And the fact that she's been doing it since I walked in here, which was fifteen minutes ago. Guess she has to pour drinks for people, though having butterbeer on tap probably makes that a lot easier than it sounds -"

He goes on, but I've already pulled out a scrap of parchment from my bag...

_Joannie wiped. All the way to the left. And all the way to the right. A customer's glass interrupted her path, but her method could handle that. One hand rose to lift it, the other swiped underneath, and seconds later the maneouvre was complete, both hands sliding along the table once more._

_She admired them, as if from a distance, as though they weren't her own hands. Hands that had become calloused after only months of working here._

_She looked up, but the man in front of her looked through her. Suddenly she was invisible to them, the people she'd rubbed shoulders with only -_

"Teddy!"

I swat him as he tries to take my paper. Sure, I was going to show him anyway, but I figure it's not worth letting my well-developed protective instincts fade away.

"This your description of her?"

Reluctantly, I hand it over to him. This wasn't how I'd imagined it going. It was going to be some grand lecture on imagining the stories behind people, not just giving dot-point summaries of the trivialities of their jobs. Or something. Teddy's last letter didn't satisfy me in the slightest.

But now I'm nervous. I'm watching him read and I'm staring over his shoulder trying to see where he's up to. Teddy's the only person I've ever shown my writing to, but even he hasn't seen any of my work for over a year. So every time he mentioned my writing I could point out how much I've grown as a writer since then.

But what if I haven't? Merlin's pants, what if I've gotten _worse?_ He's the only person who really knows how much my writing means to me. What if it's crap, what if he hates it, what if he's staring at it right now and feeling sorry for me -

"This is pretty good."

I gape at him. "Really?"

Smiling, he hands the paper back to me, and I can't help feeling a little thrill of excitement. Teddy thinks it's good? He's never said anything beyond teasing me before.

"I don't see why you had to make her a rich girl, though."

I frown. Of course she had to be a rich girl. Where was the drama in that? No-one cares about a barmaid who's known she was going to be a barmaid her whole life.

"I don't know," I say, pulling the paper back with perhaps more force than was necessary. I wince, knowing I've got to take the criticism along with the praise - but I'm not used to anyone critiquing my work like this. Maybe I can try to explain. "For the drama. So she has a goal, you know, to get back to her old life."

"And I suppose you know all about rubbing shoulders with the rich kids, huh?"

I giggle, and suddenly I feel rather inane. I'm trying to present myself as a serious writer here. "No, but -"

Before I can respond, Teddy's taken the parchment back from me. I watch as he crosses out the last two lines.

"Write again," he says suddenly. "Just - exactly what you see. Like the first two sentences were. Just watch her."

I look at him in surprise - when has Teddy ever cared about writing? Maybe he's more interested in the barmaid. But I do what he says. A gap appears in the crowd, and for a minute I have an unobstructed view of the barmaid. She's still wiping tables, but now she's resting her head in one hand as she looks out onto the crowd. I quite like her necklace, even if it does look a bit old. But hey, my favourite necklace was one I got when I was about twelve, from dad when I passed my first exams. I wonder where she got hers?

Her hands are shaking a bit, which is a bit odd - it's too early in the year for her to be cold, isn't it? - so I look into her eyes. They have that vacant look you'd expect from a barmaid, really. She looks a bit like she's spent a lot of time in detention. They seem to have the same mind-numbing qualities in common...

"Write," Teddy says in my ear, and I jump. Startled, I scribble down everything I've been thinking, in a stream-of-consciousness torrent of words that only stops when Teddy puts his hand on my shoulder.

He takes the parchment from me, and this time I'm even more nervous than before, because that was - personal. My thoughts, uncensored, on the paper. And yet at the same time I feel less nervous, because I wasn't holding that up as brilliant, or even good - heck, it's just thoughts, free, unedited, _whatever_...

"I like this better," he announces, and I snort.

"Who would want to read that, though? It's just a bunch of free-writing garbage. No-one reads that."

He looks at me seriously, and I shiver. I feel - exposed. It's not just my writing but my thoughts, feelings, dreams themselves up for examination. "Well, I did, for a start."

I look away, but Teddy makes me listen. He doesn't let go of his hand on my wrist, and reluctantly I turn to face him again. "This feels real. This is what the world is about, this is what your writing should be. Heck, this is what all writing should be, but you've got -" He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out how to say it. "You've got this way of describing things that's so - accurate, so hilarious -"

"I knew you'd think it was ridiculous."

I'm being unfair, I know, I know! He's just trying to tell me how he can improve my writing, and I'm sitting here sulking like a three-year-old.

"Come on, Victoire, you can't go through life not taking advice from anyone."

I'm perfectly happy to take his - wait, what? Did he just call me Victoire? I stare at him blankly, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"It's just... You've got this gift, Vicky -" damn - "and you should develop it properly, not just spend your time making up exotic pasts and mysterious futures for everyone you see. This -" He waves his hands over the first piece of parchment. "This was really good. I love how you can describe what she's doing in a way that makes you feel it. Heck, even I was imagining I was her when I read that for the first time, and I'm probably the least romantic person you know."

Got that straight.

"But then you have to go and make her an exiled princess or whatever -"

"I didn't say she was an exiled princess!"

"It's not about the barmaid, Vicky, you do it all the time, making up characters that aren't in the slightest bit real -"

"It's called imagination, maybe you should get some!"

He stops. "I know I'm not enough of a romantic for you. It's just -"

He rakes his hands through his hair again, and suddenly my heart starts beating rather faster than it was a moment ago. Surely he can't be - Betsy and Georgia were way off, weren't they? No, of course Teddy isn't about to confess his undying love...

But I'm still leaning on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to start talking again.

"I'm just saying I like your writing when it's honest," he says finally.

Of course not. Teddy probably hasn't even noticed I'm a girl. Which is exactly as it should be, isn't it? Teddy couldn't be the star of a romance novel even if he wanted to. And pigs would fly before that happened.

Way off, Georgia. Way off.

My heart slowly returns to its normal pace. Who knows? I probably just imagined the whole beating faster thing. Hearts don't beat faster around guys who aren't the hero.

"Vicky?"

I sigh. "You called me Victoire before," I tell him, mostly to fill up the silence while I think of something to say. I've never had my writing analysed so... thoughtfully before, and it's an odd feeling.

You never imagine your writing's going to be criticised. Why does anyone write? It's because we think we can do better than what everyone else has done, and when we're finally published, our gold-embellished volumes gracing the shelves of every magical library in Europe, in twelve different translations with a sequel on the way - well, no-one's going to be critical. Or if they are, there'll be legions of fans writing yards and yards of fan mail, so we're able to take the occasional negative review gracefully, and incorporate all that advice into our next bestsellers, proving every last one of them wrong when the next book does even better than the first.

But in the absence of rooms full of fan mail...

"Did I? I guess everyone slips up sometimes."

"What do you think of me in your head?" He stares at me, and suddenly I realise what I've just said. "Not - I mean, Vicky or Victoire?"

"Vicky," he says immediately. "It seems more... you."

And after all my hard work! "Doesn't it seem childish to you?" I try not to whine, but at the same time I'm uncomfortably aware that even asking the question answers it.

He shrugs. "Everyone calls me Teddy, don't they?"

"They'd call you Theodore if you asked them, wouldn't they?"

"If they even remember my real name," he laughs. "I've been Teddy for as long as I can remember. And you've been Vicky."

I suddenly have this irrational desire to tell him about my underwear theory. "Exactly. You're the same Teddy who knows I wore frilly pink underwear until I was thirteen. And I'm sure if I looked through all my old diaries I'd find some more interesting facts about you." Doesn't he get it? I wave my hands, though I'm quite aware that I look like an idiot - but he needs to get where I'm coming from, dammit! "You're out of Hogwarts now. No more school. You've got a proper job, a flat in London - why do you still want to be Teddy Lupin, blue snot revealer?"

He laughs out loud at that, and I give him a goofy smile before remembering that I probably come out worse in that incident than he does. "That's part of me. Doesn't mean I'm going to be doing it for the rest of my life -"

"Thank Merlin."

"- But that's no reason to up and leave and live in a garret in Morocco, calling myself Angelica-Rose and getting swept off my feet by assorted sheikhs and Aurors."

"So you do read my letters."

He grins. "I have to read between the lines a bit, but I'd say I'm pretty close to the mark, wouldn't you?"

"You're infuriating." He ducks away, but the swatting he's expecting doesn't arrive - I've got more important things to do with my butterbeer hand. "And there's no way I'd call myself Angelica-Rose. I've been leaning towards Sabrina, myself. Or maybe something starting with a J."

Okay, so I'm talking about Witch Weekly's nom-de-plume requirement, not assumed identities in North Africa, but he doesn't need to know that. Why would I want to change my name in Morocco? It's not like anyone there knows the Weasleys.

"To Sabrina J., then," Teddy announces, raising his glass. "And may she never have to face the terrible future of only settling down with one dashing hero."

Laughing, I join my glass to his, but suddenly I'm aware of a shadow over our table.

I look up. Finnlay.


	9. Chapter 9

"Isn't this cozy," he sneers, and I give him another point on the two-bit villain scoreboard. I wonder if I could make a bingo card out of it...

But then of course I remember that I'm currently part of a real-life story. No big deal. It's secretly part of my plan to spend more time around him. Without either him or myself realising it. I can do that.

"What are you doing here?" I demand, standing up to face him. "It's not even close to one yet."

"I'm ready now." Bastard. He leans against the wall, one finger tapping impatiently against his pocket.

Teddy looks at me, shrugging. "His time is obviously more valuable than the rest of us mortals'. Though might I suggest not punching him in the face again?" he adds, eyes twinkling. I scowl at him. "For some reason that sort of thing seems to cause a scene..."

"Oh, shush, Teddy. Look, Finnlay," I say, turning to him. "I'll be outside in five minutes. If you're going to wait for me do it outside."

Shrugging, he leaves the table, muttering something about already having waited ten minutes.

"Sorry about that," I say to Teddy. "I agreed to go walking with him the other day in detention. I owe him a favour." I watch his eyes carefully, but nothing flickers in them, and he certainly doesn't turn away abruptly in a fit of jealousy. I take a breath. "Are you going to - um, I'm only going to walk up and down the street, I'll probably be back in a few minutes, are you going to stay, or...?"

He scrunches up his face, and his eyes shrink up rather more than they would for a non-Metamorphagi. But somehow I doubt that's a sign of a secret passion, so I let out a sigh. Guess that's the final nail in the coffin for Georgia's theory.

"Actually, I might as well get back," he says finally. "I could only stay for the morning, anyway, got a bit of paperwork I need to do before Monday."

"I know the feeling."

He laughs. "Enjoy it while it lasts. It's about ten times more boring once you get out into the 'real world'."

"I'll keep it in mind," I say, and with a final wave he Apparates out of the pub.

And now to face Finnlay.

Hey, he's the one who wanted to go walking. What's he going to do now, go back to Professor Piper and tell her I'm not actually a worm expert? No, I'm only doing this as a favour so I'm no longer in his debt. On principle. Gentleman's honour, and all that, which I think in this day and age can certainly apply to those of us of the gentler sex.

"You're late." Well, excuse me if I wanted to actually say goodbye to my best friend!

"Yeah, yeah, let's get on with it. Where are we going?"

"For a walk," he says irritably. "I don't know. We're just going for a stroll. Down the street, into a few shops, whatever."

"Do I get to pick the shops?" I didn't get around to checking if Scrivenshaft's have released the new quill ranges yet. They always release new models around October. Gives them something to do between back to school and Christmas, I suppose. Personally I'd be happy if they released them evenly throughout the year - but I guess we've all got to have something to look forward to, right?

"Don't be ridiculous." He looks at me expectantly, but I have no idea what he's waiting for.

"Are we going or not?" I ask impatiently.

"Aren't you going to..." He waves his hand around. "Take my arm or something?"

I suck in a breath. This is straight out of a Regency romance novel! Okay, so we're not going strolling through Hyde Park, but since London's a bit far for a day's walk from Hogwarts, that was realistically never going to happen. "Why do I need to take your arm?" I say, just to be contrary.

I wouldn't mind it, though. (Excellent, my much too genre-savvy brain whispers. I'm finally starting to come around to liking Finn Thomas.) I've always wondered how you physically walk like that.

Finn's about the same height as Teddy, I notice as he holds out his arm. I've gone walking arm-in-arm with my friends before, obviously, but they're both shorter than I am, and it's kind of uncomfortable usually because I'm in the middle and it doesn't work if I'm clinging onto their arms, does it? So the only time I've really tried this is when I'm the man, and then I feel all weird and gangly and let's face it, who wants to feel like that on a sunny day out with one's friends?

I take Finn's arm, and we're off, marching through Hogsmeade like we're about to wage war on its citizens.

"Slow down," I mutter, after I nearly trip over a rock on the side of the road. "Merlin, this isn't a race, it's a weekend stroll."

He looks at me, and I meet his gaze steadily. "Fine. But I do have things to do this afternoon."

"Well, isn't that a coincidence, because so do I," I say sweetly, just as we happen to pass Scrivenshaft's. "Why don't we just stop in here for a moment?"

He stares up at the sign over the door in distaste. "We're not going into a bloody bookshop."

"It's not a bookshop," I explain patiently.

"Sure it is." He waves an uncaring hand in the direction of a parchment display in the window. "Look. Books."

"Parchment. Quills. Ink. Not books." It is so clearly a writing supplies shop it's not even funny, but I resist the urge to yell at him. Impassioned arguments are one thing, but they generally end with the hero and heroine discovering that they're not so different after all...

...But he doesn't even have an opinion on the subject!

He looks at me curiously. "Actually," he says thoughtfully - he stops short of twirling his finger through his moustache, but he totally would if he had one. "You're going to come off rather well in this. A date with not one but two handsome gentlemen on the first Hogsmeade visit of the term. It'll do wonders for your lonely dweeb reputation."

Two...? Oh. Right. Teddy. That wasn't even close to a date. It wasn't even a dasheshere meeting between friends who secretly want to be more but don't want to admit it for fear of ruining their great friendship. Mostly because our great friendship involves frilly underwear, blue snot and swear words drawn in sunscreen. But I digress.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to make him think he's got a little competition. Teddy won't mind. And it'll give him something to stew over during all those long nights in his dormitory, thinking of how I'll never love him...

I wonder if he'll pace. All the best heroes do, although they usually have a convenient library stocked with brandy and reminders of the appropriate woman lying around to be spotted at convenient points in the text. (*A jolt of pain shot through him as his hand brushed against the lemon-scented note...*) It's a bit ridiculous expecting that at Hogwarts. I don't think the library's open after midnight, anyway, even during exams.

Although he could accidentally fall asleep in there one night...

*Finnlay shuddered awake. He looked around blearily, looking for the source of the loud thud that had woken him up. He'd fallen asleep in the library, he realised with a start. None of the lamps were lit, the only source of illumination the thin slivers of moonlight creeping through the -*

Somehow I don't think Teddy would think much of that passage. Thin slivers of moonlight? I can just imagine him snorting now. He'd probably conjure up a pig's snout, too, to add insult to injury...

"You're not even listening to me, are you?" the real Finnlay says suddenly, interrupting my mental writing.

I hate it when that happens. "Not really, no. Do I have to?"

He looks disconcerted for a moment, but then he shrugs. "I've spent the last two minutes creatively insulting you - but no, I guess not."

We keep walking, and I know I should be painfully aware of how close Finnlay is, of the hard muscles beneath his shirt (how am I supposed to be able to tell? I'm walking next to him), of his manly scent drifting down (anyone who's ever been in a Quidditch changing room after a long game knows that's the last thing from appealing you can imagine).

But to be honest, I can't keep my mind on him. I keep thinking about what Teddy said about my writing (which is perfectly reasonable. Even heroines are allowed to think of something other than the hero, as long as it relates to her One True Passion). Does he really think my writing's... decent? That I have talent? All I could think about while he was talking was defending myself, but he had a few good things to say about me, too...

I mean. My writing.

I look around Hogsmeade, trying to find someone else to describe in my mind, to repeat the exercise, but none of them seem interesting enough. Even Teddy wouldn't want to read about Hannah Shaw from Hufflepuff.

Hang on. Is that Betsy and Georgia? I glance up at Finnlay, who's staring ahead in stony silence (another point to the brooding scoreboard).

I'm very curious about their reactions. I've never had a guy be interested in me before. And in an interesting, plot-worthy way! Screw secret smiles, I'm practically shivering in excitement.

"Georgia! Betsy!" I yell suddenly, and Finn jumps about a foot in the air. "Don't do that," I mutter crossly at him. He'll have me tripping over my own feet if he doesn't stop with the sudden moves.

They catch sight of me, and I suddenly remember that I didn't end up telling Betsy about Finnlay. She frowns, and Georgia says something to her that I can't hear - but they come over, and Betsy doesn't even look like she's about to throttle me. Guess I could have told her at breakfast after all...

Although Finnlay could be right about the breakfast thing. Maybe I'm only cursed at breakfast. Making dramatic revelations might not be so publicly embarrassing if I pick some other time. I'll have to keep that in mind.

"Hey, Vicky," Georgia says easily. "Been to Flourish and Blotts yet?"

You know, I think we underestimate Georgia. Betsy's the smart one, I'm the - well, I'm not sure what everyone else thinks, but from my point of view I'm the centre of the universe, so there's no chance I'm going to discount my abilities. And Georgia's just Georgia, the popular one, the one we'd never call dumb because she's our best friend, but we all know she's going to scrape through three NEWTs and get a job in reception -

Except she's not. Look at the rest of us. Betsy's stewing, I can tell, and she's barely acknowledged me, her best friend, let alone Finnlay. I'm standing here awkwardly, wishing I'd pretended I hadn't seen them, and Finn's standing there with this absolutely flummoxed look on his face. Wish the rest of us had social skills.

"Nah, Finn here wasn't interested."

"What can I say? I'm just naturally talented. I guess some people need books to learn, but I can't say I do."

He's almost back to form. But something's a bit off. I narrow my eyes at him. And then at Georgia. And then, insert ominous music here, at Betsy.

There's something going on - Merlin, I can't believe I didn't realise. Betsy can't stand Finn, and I think the feeling's mutual. I can't believe I've been such an awful friend to her.

But it's not like I knew this was going to end up like this. I've just been taking this thing with Finnlay as it comes - and, I think to myself, my virtual hands on my virtual hips, I can hardly tell her I'm secretly falling in love with Finnlay if I haven't admitted it to myself yet! What does she want me to do, skip to the last ten pages? Real life doesn't work like that...

But I've got to do something about her and Finnlay. Just because my hatred is manufactured for the sake of drama doesn't mean hers is. I've got to let her know somehow, but I don't know how to do it. I mean, it's all well and good knowing secretly what we're heading towards, but talking about it openly in the dormitory is going a bit far even by my standards.

Still, I suppose I could come up with a few "oh, I just can't stand him" lines... you know, prompting Georgia to come out with something about the lady protesting, and then I'll change the subject to Muggle literature while Betsy lies awake coming to terms with the fact that her best friend's slowly falling in love with her worst enemy, though she refuses to admit it to herself. Or something.

Damn, though, I wish I'd done that a few days ago.

Merlin! And now she knows what Georgia and I were talking about at breakfast. She hasn't even seen me with Teddy. She probably thinks I made that up - no, but I showed her the note, didn't I? I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I had the sense to do that.

"Well, we're heading in there now, want to join us?"

I turn to Finn. I can't ask if the favour's repaid, because then Betsy and Georgia will know we just made it up. But I need to explain to Betsy what's going on - at least as far as I'm able. Dammit, life was so much simpler when I wasn't the star of my very own romance novel...

Finn nods curtly. He's understood. I flash him a grateful smile, and extract my hand from his arm. But before I can do that, he grabs my hand in his, and gives it a squeeze. He's got this look in his eyes that's a reasonable approximation of 'intense', and I'm immediately reminded of Lord Arrington in The Sword of Desire, when he leaves her after their first waltz together...

Finally this is happening to me!

"See you, Weasley," he says as he turns away. Then, over his shoulder: "Or should that be Victoire?"

I nearly swoon! He's the very picture of a romance hero. All dark and mysterious as he strides down the main street of Hogsmeade.

"You coming?"

I drag my eyes away from Finn's retreating back. Oh, I've always wanted to say that. "What? Yeah, of course. Have you been yet?"

"No, we've been buying stuff from the joke shop."

"Surely that wouldn't take an hour?"

Georgia laughs. "Betsy was really getting into it. And besides, we didn't end up leaving Hogwarts until about eleven. Went up to the dorms."

Betsy flashes Georgia a look. "Yeah, I left my purse next to my bed."

They've been talking without me?

And then something clicks. Suddenly I'm feeling guilty - on two levels. I guess this is where I realise I've been spending too much time thinking about Finnlay, and possibly that I'm madly in love with him -

- But dammit, forget about Finnlay for a moment! I have been neglecting my friends, and the only way Finnlay comes into it is that I've been wrapping myself way too much into this fantasy.

Georgia catches my eye... 


	10. Chapter 10

Victoire.

Thank you for meeting me at the Three Broomsticks today. I thought it might be a nice meeting between friends. Friends, by the way, being people you don't abandon at the drop of a hat to go walking with some bloke you're fancying yourself madly in love with.

I'm not some master writer, Vicky, but I'll try to be in the hope that for once you'll understand. Maybe writers speak a different version of English gamekeepers do. You'll have to let me know. Make sure you don't use any long words, it's a bit tricky having to go to the dic-shun-arry all the time.

Give me a minute to flex, Vicky. I've got to get in the zone. Maybe I'll do a few writing exercises. I've got to get the right words flowing into my brain, you know. Living the high flying life of a master writer. Start throwing around words like discourse and description and denouement. Let's see. Plot, dialogue, characterisation -

Oh! Here's somewhere my lowly gamekeeper self can hold his own in this conversation. Characters. That's how you see us all, isn't it, in your little drama you're playing out with Thomas? He's the main character. The leading man, the hero, the protagonist. And the rest of us? Well, you can't have a compelling plot without a few minor characters to talk to every now and then. You know, just as a quick little reminder that no, despite all appearances to the contrary, the heroine's life does not in fact revolve around the hero's, and every now and then she goes off for a few minutes to chat to some of her old mates -

Until the hero turns up. Yeah, that's where the real scene starts, isn't it? I'm just a bit of fodder, a background, a launching point for a dramatic encounter with Sir Lancelot - I'll assume you've already let Thomas know he's going to have to start dressing in all black, haven't you? If you haven't, you'd better hurry. Now's your chance. There's that awkward thing called real life that starts after the dramatic kiss in the hallway and the final page of the novel, after all. You might not have heard of it. Thank me later for introducing it to you.

Dammit, Victoire, I can't do this any more. Maybe I'm not the main character in your life but I'm leading my own life too. And when I go out of my way to meet you in the middle of Scotland, despite all the work that's building up on my desk, despite the fact that there was a work function on Friday night that I had to leave early so I'd be ready to see my friend Vicky all nice and refreshed - well, sometimes it's nice if I'm not ditched half an hour into our meeting.

That's how long we spent talking. And do you know what you said at the end of it? I can't decide whether you record every sentence and every word you say - for future dialogue, of course, because everything you say is the most marvellous and witty thing to grace the pages of a romance novel since the sword and the sheath... or if you genuinely don't care what you say about me, because none of your readers care about the shitty secondary characters?

_"That's just Teddy. He's nothing."_

That's what you said at the end of our conversation. Sure, I could have waited. But I guess I see where I stand in your books. Teddy, the nothing. That's what you said, and then you left, arm in arm with some bloke you say you hate and you're pretending you love. So I went home, and I did some paperwork, and I put the kettle on, and I didn't wash my hair or trim my lawn* but do you know what I didn't do? Disappear.

Because that's not how it works in real life. Real people have real lives. They don't just disappear after their perfunctory three paragraph scenes. They go on, and they have feelings, and dammit but I'm irritated, Vicky. I put a lot of effort into coming all the way to Scotland to see you, and what do I get in return? Thirty minutes of giving you a bloody writing lesson and a "That's Teddy. He's nothing." as my reward.

Here. I'll even call you Victoire. Enjoy school, Victoire. Enjoy your writing. Real life is waiting when you get back.

Teddy Lupin.


End file.
